THE  OUTRAGE 


ANNIE   VIVANTI  CHART  RES 


NEW  YORK  :  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  :  1918 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
A.  VFVANTI  CHARTRBS 


FlINTID    I.\    THE  ITkl    OF    AMERICA 


•      KARY 

.  I 

e, \NT.-V  BARBARA 


THE  OUTRAGE 


BOOK  I 
CHAPTER  I 

CHERIE  was  ready  first.  She  flung  her  striped 
bath-robe  over  her  shoulders  and  picked  up  Amour 
who  was  wriggling  and  barking  at  her  pink  heels. 

"Ait  revoir  dans  I'eau,"  she  said  to  little  Mireille 
and  to  the  German  nursery  governess,  Frieda. 

"Oh,  Frieda,  vite,  vite,  degrafez-moi,"  cried  Mi- 
reille,  backing  towards  the  hard-faced  young  woman 
and  indicating  a  jumble  of  knotted  tapes  hanging 
down  behind  her. 

"Speak  English,  please,  both.  This  is  our  English 
day,"  said  Frieda,  standing  in  her  petticoat-bodice  in 
front  of  the  mirror  and  removing  what  the  girls  called 
her  "Wurst"  from  the  top  of  her  head.  In  the  glass 
she  caught  sight  of  Cherie  making  for  the  door  and 
called  her  back  sharply.  "Mademoiselle  Cherie, 
you  go  not  in  the  street  without  your  stockings  and 
your  hat." 

"Nonsense,  Frieda!  In  Westende  every  one  goes 
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to  bathe  like  this,"  and  Cherie  waved  a  bare  shapely 
limb  and  flicked  her  pink  toes  at  Amour,  who  barked 
wildly  at  them. 

"I  do  not  care  how  every  one  goes.  You  go  not," 
said  Frieda  Rothenstein,  hanging  her  sleek  brown 
Wurst  carefully  on  the  mirror-stand. 

"Then  what  have  we  come  here  for?"  sulked 
Cherie,  dropping  Amour  and  giving  him  a  soft  kick 
with  her  bare  foot. 

"We  have  come  here,"  quoth  Frieda,  "not  for 
marching  our  undressed  legs  about  the  streets,  but  for 
the  enjoyment  both  of  the  summer-freshness  and  of 
the  out-view."  Whereupon  Mireille  gave  a  sudden 
shriek  of  laughter  and  Amour  bounded  round  her  and 
barked. 

Cherie  crossed  the  room  to  the  chair  on  which  her 
walking  clothes  had  been  hastily  flung.  "Won't 
sand-shoes  do?" 

"No.  Sand-shoes  and  stockings,"  said  Frieda. 
"And  hat,"  she  added,  glancing  down  at  the  comely 
bent  head  with  its  cascade  of  waving  red-brown  locks. 

Cherie  hurriedly  drew  on  her  black  stockings, 
glancing  up  occasionally  to  smile  at  Mireille;  and 
nothing  could  be  sweeter  than  those  shining  eyes  seen 
through  the  veil  of  falling  hair.  Now  she  was  ready, 
her  flapping  bergere  hat  crushed  down  on  her  care- 
less curls,  Amour  hoisted  under  her  arm  again,  and 
with  a  nod  of  commiseration  to  Mireille  she  ran  down 

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the  narrow  wooden  staircase  of  Villa  Esther,  Madame 
Guillaume's  appartements  meubles  and  was  down  in 
the  rue  des  Moulins  with  her  smiling  face  to  the 
sea. 

The  street  was  a  short  one,  half  of  it  not  yet  built 
over,  leading  from  a  new  aeroplane-shed  at  the  back 
to  the  wide  asphalted  promenade  on  the  sea-front. 
Cherie  met  some  other  bathers — a  couple  of  men 
striding  along  in  their  bathing  suits,  their  bronzed 
limbs  bare,  a  damp  towel  round  their  necks,  their 
wet  hair  plastered  to  their  cheeks.  They  barely 
glanced  at  the  picturesque  little  figure  in  the  brief  red 
bathing-skirt  and  flapping  hat,  for  all  along  the  sands 
— from  Nieuport,  twenty  minutes  to  the  right,  to 
Ostend  half  an  hour  to  the  left — there  were  hundreds 
of  just  such  charming  school-girl  figures  darting  about 
in  the  sunlight,  while  all  the  fast  and  loose  "daughters 
of  joy"  from  Brussels,  Namur,  and  Spa,  added  their 
more  poignant  note  of  provocativeness  to  the  blue  and 
gold  beauty  of  the  summer  scene. 

Cherie  passed  the  bicycle  shop  and  waved  a 
friendly  hand  to  Cyrille  Wibon,  who  was  kneeling  be- 
fore his  racing  Petrolette  and  washing  its  shining 
nose  with  the  tenderness  of  a  nurse  and  the  pride  of 
a  father. 

"Remember!  the  two  bicycles  at  eleven,  on  the 
sands,"  cried  Cherie  in  Flemish,  and  Cyrille  lifted 
a  quick  forefinger  to  his  black  hair,  and  nodded. 

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Cherie  ran  on,  crossed  the  wide  promenade,  and 
•kipped  down  the  shallow  flight  of  steps  leading  to 
the  sands,  those  vast  sweeping  sands  of  Westende  that 
begin  and  end  in  the  wide,  wild  dunes.  She  dropped 
Amour,  who  rolled  over,  righted  himself,  dug  a  few 
rapid  holes  with  his  hind  paws  in  the  sand  and  then 
trotted  off  to  lead  his  own  wicked  dog's  life  with  cer- 
tain hated  enemies  of  his — a  supercilious  leveret,  a 
scatter-brained  Irish  terrier,  and  a  certain  mean  and 
shivering  black-and-tan,  whose  tastes  and  history 
would  not  bear  investigation. 

Cherie  plunged  through  the  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
dry,  soft  sand,  into  which  her  feet  sank  at  every  step, 
and  as  she  reached  the  smoother  surface  that  the  out- 
going tide  left  hard  and  level,  she  flung  off  her  bath- 
robe and  her  hat,  her  sand-shoes  and  her  stockings; 
then  she  ran  out  into  the  water. 

Lithe  and  light  she  ran,  skipping  over  the  first 
shallow  waves  and  on  until  the  water  lapped  her 
knees  and  the  red  skirt  bulged  out  all  round  her  like 
a  balloon — on  she  ran  with  little  chilly  gasps  of  de- 
light, raising  her  white  arms  above  her  head  as  the 
water  rose  and  encircled  her  with  its  cool,  strong 
embrace.  The  sun  cast  a  net  of  dancing  diamonds  on 
the  blue  satin  sea,  and  the  girl  felt  the  joy  of  life 
bound  within  her  like  some  wild,  living  thing.  She 
joined  her  finger-tips  and  dived  into  the  dancing 
waters;  then  she  emerged,  pushing  her  wet  hair  from 


THE      OUTRAGE 


her  eyes  with  her  wet  hand.  She  swam  on  and  on 
toward  the  azure  horizon,  and  dreamed  of  thus  swim- 
ming on  for  ever  and  losing  herself  in  the  blue  beauty 
of  the  world. 

An  aeroplane  passed  above  her  with  its  angry  whirr 
returning  from  Blankenberghe  to  Nieuport,  and  she 
turned  on  her  back  and  floated,  looking  up  at  it  and 
waving  her  small  gleaming  hand.  She  thought  the 
plane  dipped  suddenly  as  if  it  would  fall  upon  her, 
and  she  watched  it,  holding  her  breath  for  the  pilot's 
safety  till  it  was  almost  out  of  sight.  Then  she 
turned  and  trod  water  awhile  and  blinked  at  the  dis- 
tant shore  for  a  sight  of  Mireille. 

Yes,  surely,  there  was  the  skimpy  figure  of  Frieda, 
and  beside  it  ran  and  hopped  the  still  skimpier  figure 
of  Mireille,  whose  thin  legs  had  only  scampered 
through  ten  Aprils  and  whose  treble  voice  cut  the 
distance  with  the  shrill  note  of  exceeding  youth. 

"Chereee!  .  .  .  Chereeee!  .  .  .  Come  back. 
Come  back  and  fetch  me!" 

So  Cherie,  with  a  sigh,  turned  and  swam  slowly 
landward. 

Mireille  came  running  out  to  meet  her  with  little 
splashes  and  jumps  and  shrieks,  while  Frieda  stopped 
behind  in  a  few  inches  of  water  and  went  through  a 
series  of  hygienic  rites,  first  wetting  her  forehead, 
then  her  chest,  then  her  forehead  again,  and  finally 
sitting  down  solemnly  in  the  water  until  she  had 

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counted  a  hundred.  This  concluded  her  bath,  and 
she  went  home  to  dress. 

When,  an  hour  later,  she  came  down  to  the  sands 
again  neatly  clothed  in  her  Reformkleid,  with  the 
Wurst  reinstated  high  and  dry  on  the  top  of  her 
otherwise  damp  head,  she  saw  her  two  charges  lying 
flat  and  motionless  in  the  sand,  the  broiling  sunshine 
burning  down  on  their  upturned  faces  and  closed  eyes. 
They  were  pretending  to  be  dead ;  and  indeed,  thought 
Frieda,  as  she  saw  them  lying,  so  small  and  still  on 
the  immensity  of  the  sands,  they  looked  like  drowned 
morsels  of  humanity  tossed  up  by  the  sea. 

Before  Frieda  could  reach  them,  Cyrille,  the  bi- 
cycle teacher,  passed  her — the  monkeyman,  as  the 
girls  called  him — pedalling  along  on  one  machine 
and  guiding  the  other  towards  the  two  small  recumbent 
figures.  They  jumped  up  when  they  heard  him,  and 
by  the  time  Frieda  reached  the  spot,  Mireille  was 
being  hoisted  on  to  a  very  rusty  old  machine,  while 
Cherie,  a  slim,  scarlet  figure,  with  auburn  locks  afloat 
and  white  limbs  gleaming,  was  skimming  along  in  the 
distance  on  the  smooth  resilient  sands. 

"I  do  not  approve,"  panted  Frieda,  running  along- 
side of  the  swaying  Mireille,  while  the  monkey-man 
trotted  behind  and  held  the  saddle, — "I  do  not  ap- 
prove of  this  bicycle-riding  in  bathing  costume." 

"Oh,  Frieda,"  gasped  Mireille,  "do  stop  scolding, 
you  make  me  wobble—  "  and  with  a  sudden  swerve 

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the  bicycle  described  a  semicircle  and  ran  swiftly 
down  into  the  sea. 

Mireille  was  very  angry  with  Frieda  and  with  the 
bicycle  and  with  the  monkey-man,  who  grinned  with 
his  very  white  teeth  in  his  very  dark  face,  and  hoisted 
her  up  again.  Frieda  soon  tired  of  following  them, 
and  sat  down  near  an  empty  boat  to  read  Der  Trom- 
peter  von  Sakkingen. 

Sakkingen!  As  Frieda's  eyes  skimmed  the  neatly 
printed  pages  and  lingered  on  the  woodcut  of  a  church 
tower  and  a  bridge,  her  soul  went  back  to  the  little 
town  on  the  Rhine.  For  Frieda,  like  the  famous 
trumpeter,  came  from  Sakkingen;  her  feet,  in  square 
German  shoes,  had  tottered  and  run  and  clattered  and 
tripped  at  divers  ages  over  its  famous  covered  bridge; 
she  had  leaned  out  of  the  small  flower-filled  windows, 
and  sent  her  girlish  dreams  floating  down  the  sleepy 
waters  of  the  Rhine ;  she  had  passed  Victor  von  Shef- 
fel's  small  squat  monument  every  morning  on  her 
way  to  school,  and  every  evening  on  her  way  home 
she  had  looked  up  at  the  shuttered  windows  of  the 
house  that  had  been  his.  Sakkingen! — with  its  clean 
white  streets  and  its  blue-and-white  Kaffee-Halle  in 
the  Square  and  its  bakeries  redolent  of  fresh  Kuchen 
and  Schnecken.  .  .  .  Frieda  raised  eyes  of  ran- 
cour to  the  dancing  North  Sea,  to  the  smooth  Belgian 
sands,  to  the  distant  silhouettes  of  Cherie,  Mireille, 
and  the  monkey-man,  even  to  the  bounding  Amour 

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and  his  companions  of  iniquity.  She  hated  it  all. 
She  hated  them  all.  They  were  all  selfish  and  vulgar 
and  flippant,  with  no  poetry  in  their  souls,  and  no  re- 
ligion, and  bad  cooking.  .  .  .  Frieda  shook  her  head 
bitterly:  "Das  Land  das  meine  Sprache  spricht 
..."  she  murmured  in  nostalgic  tones,  and  sighed. 
Then  she  took  up  her  book  again  and  read  what 
Hidigeigei,  tom-cat  and  philosopher,  had  to  say  about 
love  and  the  Springtime. 

Warum  kiissen  sich  die  Menschen? 
Warum  meistens  nur  die  Jungen  ? 
Warum  diese  meist  im  Friihjahr?  .  .  . 


That  evening  Mireille  opened  the  door  to  the  post- 
man and  took  two  letters  from  him.  Then  she  went 
to  the  sitting-room  where  Frieda  and  Cherie  sat  at 
their  needlework ;  hiding  one  of  the  letters  behind  her 
back  she  read  out  the  superscription  of  the  other  with 
irritating  slowness: 

"Mademoiselle  —  Cherie  —  Brandes  -  -  Villa  - 
Esther—" 

"Oh,  give  it  to  me!"  cried  Cherie,  extending  an 
impatient  hand. 

"It  is  from  Loulou,"  said  Mireille,  giving  up  the 
letter  and  still  holding  the  other  one  behind  her 
back. 

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"You  may  not  call  your  mother  Loulou,"  snapped 
Frieda.  "I  have  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"She  likes  it,"  said  Mireille.  "Besides,  Cherie 
calls  her  Loulou." 

"Cherie  is  her  sister-in-law,  not  her  daughter," 
said  Frieda;  then  catching  sight  of  the  other  letter  in 
Mireille's  hand :  "Who  is  that  for?" 

"Hochwohlgeborenes  Fraulein — Frieda  Rothen- 
stein—  "  read  Mireille,  and  Frieda  rose  quickly  and 
pulled  the  letter  out  of  her  hand.  "Oh,  Frieda,  you 
rude  thing!  Who  is  your  letter  from?  It's  on  our 
letter-paper,  and  is  not  from  Loulou,  and  it  is  not 
from  my  father.  Who  calls  you  all  that  twiddly- 
twaddly  hochwohlgeboren  nonsense?" 

Nobody  answered.  Both  Fraulein  and  Cherie  were 
reading  their  letters  with  intent  eyes.  Mireille  con- 
tinued her  monologue.  "I  believe  it  is  from  Fritz. 
Fancy!  Fritz,  who  is  only  papa's  servant,  writing 
to  you!  Do  you  answer  him?  Fancy  a  hochwohlge- 
boren  getting  letters  from  a  man-servant!" 

Frieda  did  not  deign  to  reply,  nor  did  she  raise 
her  eyes  from  the  letter  in  her  hand ;  yet  as  Mireille 
could  see,  it  was  only  one  line  long.  Just  four  or 
five  words.  But  Frieda  sat  staring  at  them  as  if  tlisy 
had  turned  her  to  stone. 

Now  Cherie  had  finished  reading  the  hastily 
scrawled  page  in  her  hand  and  raised  a  face  full  of 
consternation. 

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"Frieda!  Mireille!  Do  you  know  what  has  hap- 
pened? We  are  to  go  home  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  exclaimed  Mireille.  "Why,  papa 
said  we  were  to  stay  here  two  months,  and  we  only 
arrived  four  days  ago." 

"Well,  your  mother  writes  that  we  are  to  go  home 
at  once.  Do  you  hear,  Frieda?"  But  Frieda  did  not 
answer  nor  raise  her  eyes. 

"But  why — why?"  cried  Mireille.  "Doesn't  Lou- 
lou  know  we  have  arranged  to  have  your  birthday 
party  here,  with  Lucile  and  Jeannette  and  Cri-cri  all 
coming  on  purpose?" 

"Yes,  she  knows,"  said  Cherie,  turning  her  sweet, 
perplexed  eyes  from  Mireille's  disconcerted  face  to 
the  impassive  countenance  of  Frieda,  "but  she  says 
there  is  going  to  be  war." 

"War?  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  us?"  ex- 
claimed Mireille  in  injured  tones.  "It  really  is  too 
bad.  Just  as  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  to-morrow 
I  would  swim  with  both  feet  off  the  ground!  .  .  ." 


-14- 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  next  day's  sun  rose  hot  and  angry.  It  was  the 
30th  of  July.  By  ten  o'clock  Frieda  had  packed 
everything.  Amour  had  been  put  into  his  picnic- 
basket  and  his  humped-up  back  coaxed  and  patted  and 
finally  forcibly  pressed  down,  and  the  lid  shut  over 
him.  Then  they  awaited  the  carriage  ordered  by  tel- 
ephone from  Ostend  the  night  before. 

But  no  carriage  arrived.  At  eleven  Cherie  ran 
across  to  the  telephone-office  and  spoke  in  her  sternest 
tones  to  the  livery  stable  in  Ostend. 

"Eh  bien?  Is  this  carriage  coming?  We  ordered 
it  for  ten  o'clock." 

"No,  Madame,  it  is  not  coming,"  replied  a  gruff 
voice  from  the  other  end. 

"Not  coming?" 

"No,  Madame."  Then  in  lower,  almost  confiden- 
tial tones,  "It  has  been  requisitioned." 

"What  is  that?  Then  send  another  one,"  said 
Cherie.  But  Ostend  had  cut  off  the  communication 
and  Cherie  returned  crestfallen  and  wondering  to  the 
glum  Frieda  and  the  doleful  Mireille  sitting  on  the 
trunks  in  Madame  Guillaume's  narrow  hall. 

"No  carriage,"  she  said. 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


"What?"  exclaimed  Frieda. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Mireille. 

"I  don't  know;  something  is  being  done  to  it," 
Cherie  said  vaguely.  "I  did  not  understand.  Per- 
haps it  is  being  re — re — covered,  or  something." 

At  noon  Madame  Guillaume  found  a  porter  for 
them  who  wheeled  the  luggage  on  a  hand-cart  to  the 
Westende  tramway  station.  And  the  tramway  car- 
ried them  and  their  luggage  and  Amour  in  his  basket 
to  Ostend,  where  another  man  with  a  hand-cart  was 
found  to  wheel  the  luggage  and  the  basket  to  the 
railway  station. 

They  noticed  at  once  that  Ostend  wore  a  strange  and 
novel  air.  Crowds  filled  the  town,  crowds  that  were 
not  the  customary  sauntering  demi-mondaines  and 
lounging  viveurs.  No;  the  streets  were  full  of  hur- 
rying people,  of  soldiers  on  foot  and  on  horseback; 
long  lines  of  motor-cars,  motor-cycles,  carts  and 
wagons  blocked  the  roadways,  and  behind  them  came 
peasants  leading  strings  of  unharnessed  horses. 
Down  the  rue  Albert  came,  marching  rapidly,  a  little 
band  of  Gardes  Civiques  in  their  long  coats  and  in- 
congruous bowler-hats  with  straps  under  their  chins. 
Groups  of  officers,  who  had  arrived  a  few  days  before 
for  the  international  tennis  tournament,  were  as- 
sembled on  the  Avenue  Leopold  and  talked  together 
in  low,  eager  tones. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  everybody?"  asked 
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Mireille,  as  they  hurried  through  the  Place  St. 
Joseph  and  across  the  bridge  after  the  man  with  the 
luggage,  who  was  already  vanishing  into  the  crowded 
station. 

As  if  in  answer  to  her  question  a  couple  of  news- 
paper boys  came  rushing  past  with  shrill  cries. 
"Supplement  .  .  .  supplement  de  'I 'Independence* 
•  .  .  ,  Mobilization  Generale  .  .  ." 

"Frieda,  is  there  really  going  to  be  war?"  asked 
Cherie,  looking  anxiously  at  Frieda's  sulky  profile. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  said  Frieda.  "Between  Rus- 
sia and  Germany." 

"Oh  well;  that  is  far  away,"  said  young  Cherie, 
with  a  little  laugh  of  relief,  and  she  ran  to  rescue  the 
picnic-basket  from  the  porter's  roughly  swinging 
hand. 

"Amour  is  whining,"  whispered  Mireille,  as  they 
stood  in  the  crush  waiting  to  pass  the  ticket-collector 
on  the  quai. 

"Oh!  he  mustn't,"  said  Cherie.  "Officially  he  is 
sandwiches." 

So  Mireille  thumped  the  basket  with  her  small 
gloved  hand  and  murmured,  "Couche-toi,  tais-toi, 
vilian  scelerat"  And  the  official  sandwiches  sub- 
sided in  the  basket  and  were  silent. 

They  never  had  such  a  journey.  The  train  was 
crowded  to  suffocation;  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be 
going  to  Brussels;  every  few  minutes  their  train 

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stopped  to  let  other  even  more  crowded  trains  dash 
past  them  towards  the  capital. 

"I  have  never  seen  so  many  soldiers,"  said  Mireille. 
"I  did  not  think  there  were  so  many  in  the  world." 

Frieda  Rothenstein  smiled  disdainfully  with  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  turned  down.  "There  are  a  few 
more  than  this  in  my  country,"  she  said. 

"What?  In  Germany?  But  not  such  beautiful 
ones,"  cried  Mireille,  hanging  out  of  the  window  and 
waving  her  handkerchief  as  many  others  did  to  a  little 
company  of  Lancers  cantering  past  on  the  winding 
road  with  lances  fixed  and  pennants  fluttering. 

Frieda  glanced  at  them  superciliously.  "You 
should  see  our  Uhlans,"  she  said.  And  added  under 
her  breath,  "Who  knows?  Perhaps  one  day  you 
may." 

But  the  girls  were  not  listening.  The  train  was 
running  into  Brussels  at  last.  The  journey  had  taken 
five  hours  instead  of  two. 

An  hour  later  they  still  sat  in  the  motionless  train  in 
the  Brussels  station. 

"At  this  rate  we  shall  never  reach  Bomal,"  said 
Cherie  drearily,  as  they  watched  train  after  train 
packed  with  soldiers  leave  the  station  before  theirs  in 
the  direction  of  Liege.  Here  all  the  world  seemed  to 
be  rushing  out  of  Brussels  towards  the  eastern  fron- 
tier. 

But  all  things  end;  and  finally  their  train  started 
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too,  panting  and  puffing  out  of  the  Gare  du  Nord  to- 
wards Louvain,  Tirlemont,  and  Liege. 

It  was  utterly  dark  by  the  time  they  reached  Liege ; 
and  when  they  left  the  Gare  Guillemin  the  soft  sum- 
mer night  had  swathed  the  valley  of  the  Ourthe  with 
tenebrous  draperies.  Little  Mireille  fell  asleep 
with  a  pale  smudgy  face  resting  against  Frieda's  arm. 
Cherie  lay  back  in  her  corner  dozing  and  dreaming 
of  Westende's  blue  sea;  but  Frieda's  eyes  were  wide 
open  staring  out  into  the  darkness  as  the  train  rumbled 
in  and  out  of  the  tunnels,  clattered  over  bridges  fol- 
lowing the  gleaming  blackness  of  the  river. 

Where  the  Ourthe  meets  its  younger  brother  the 
Aisne,  the  train  slowed  down,  trembled,  hissed,  and 
stopped. 

"Bomal,"  announced  the  guard. 

"Here  we  are!  Mireille,  wake  up!"  cried  Cherie, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  Then  she  put  Mireille's 
bergere  hat  very  crookedly  on  the  child's  towzled 
head,  while  Frieda  hurriedly  collected  the  books,  the 
tennis-rackets  and  the  parasols. 

"Ah!  there  he  is,"  and  Cherie  waved  her  hand  out 
of  the  window  to  a  tall  figure  on  the  platform. 
"Claude!  Claude!  Nous  void'9 

Claude  Brandes,  a  handsome  man,  fifteen  years 
older  than  his  sister  Cherie,  opened  the  carriage  door 
with  an  exclamation  of  relief.  "Thank  goodness 
you  are  here,"  he  said,  lifting  his  dazed,  weary  little 

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daughter  in  his  arms  as  if  she  were  a  baby  and  hoist- 
ing her  on  to  his  shoulder.  "Are  you  all  right? 
Have  you  got  everything?  Come  along!"  And  h« 
started  down  the  platform,  Cherie  and  Frieda  trotting 
quickly  after  him.  "Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  Frieda,  "give  the  check  for  your  trunks  to 
Fritz." 

"Oui,  Monsieur  le  Docteur"  she  replied,  fumbling 
for  it  in  her  hand-bag.  Then  she  looked  round  for 
the  man-servant,  whom  she  had  as  yet  not  caught  sight 
of.  Fritz  Hollander  ("Hollander  by  name  and  Hol- 
lander by  nationality,"  he  always  said  of  himself 
when  making  new  acquaintances)  stepped  out  of  the 
shadow  and  took  the  paper  from  Frieda's  hand.  She 
murmured  a  greeting  to  him,  but  he  did  not  reply  nor 
did  he  seem  to  notice  her  questioning  glance.  He 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  his  massive  figure  was  soon 
swallowed  up  in  the  shadows  at  the  end  of  the  station. 

The  little  party  had  just  reached  the  exit  and  the 
train,  with  a  parting  whistle,  was  curving  away  into 
the  darkness,  when  Mireille  suddenly  raised  her  face 
from  her  father's  shoulder  and  gave  a  shriek. 
"Amour!  We  have  forgotten  Amour!" 

It  was  true.  Amour,  cramped  and  disgusted  in 
his  creaky  luncheon  basket,  was  travelling  away  in 
the  darkness  to  the  heart  of  the  Ardennes. 

After  the  first  moment  of  dismay  everybody  was 
cross  with  everybody  else. 

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"It's  all  his  own  fault,"  said  Cherie,  who  was  tired 
and  hungry.  "He  might  have  barked.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  we  were  getting  out." 

"Haven't  we  taught  him  to  pretend  he  is  sandwiches 
when  we're  travelling?"  sobbed  Mireille  indignantly. 
"How  can  you  be  so  unjust?" 

"Never  mind,  Mirette,"  said  her  father;  "don't 
cry.  We  will  telegraph  to  Marche  to  have  him 
stopped  and  sent  back.  You  will  see  him  turn  up 
safe  and  tail-wagging  in  the  morning." 

And  the  telegram  was  sent. 

As  they  walked  through  the  silent,  sleeping  village 
of  Bomal  Cherie  inquired,  "Why  is  Loulou  not  here? 
She  might  have  come  in  the  motor." 

Her  brother  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  have  sent 
away  the  car,"  he  said. 

"Sent  it  away?     What  for?"  exclaimed  Cherie. 

"I  have  ...  I  have  lent  it,"  said  Dr.  Brandes. 

"To  whom?"  inquired  Mireille,  trotting  beside  her 
father  and  hanging  on  to  his  arm. 

He  gave  a  little  laugh.     "To  the  King,"  he  said. 

"Oh!"  cried  Mireille.  "Not  much  of  a  car  to  lend 
to  a  king!  Surely  he  has  better  ones  himself." 

"We  all  give  what  we  have  in  time  of  war,"  said  her 
father.  "Come,  I  will  carry  you,  my  little  bird,"  he 
said,  and  lifted  her  up  again. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why  are  you  so  affection- 
ate?" asked  Mireille,  nestling  comfortably  in  his 

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arms  and  patting  his  broad  back  with  her  small  hand. 

Cherie  laughed  and  looked  up  adoringly  at  her 
big  brother.  "Is  he  not  always  affectionate?"  she 
asked. 

"Not  so  dreadfully,"  replied  Mireille,  in  her  mat- 
ter-of-fact tones;  and  then  they  all  three  laughed. 

Frieda,  hurrying  behind  them  in  the  dark  with  the 
books,  the  parasols,  and  the  tennis-rackets,  hated  them 
for  their  laughter. 

Louise  Brandes,  a  slim  white  figure  in  the  moon- 
light, awaited  them  at  the  door.  She  kissed  Mireille 
and  Cherie  and  greeted  Frieda  kindly;  then  she  made 
them  all  drink  hot  milk  and  sent  them  to  bed. 

"But  I  want  to  tell  papa  about  how  I  can  almost 
swim  and  nearly  ride  a  bicycle,"  said  Mireille, 
sidling  up  to  her  father. 

"You  shall  tell  him  to-morrow,  my  darling,"  said 
Louise. 

But  the  morrow  was  not  as  they  dreamed  it. 

When  early  next  morning  Frieda  and  the  girls 
came  down  to  the  breakfast-room  they  found  Louise, 
still  in  her  white  dress  of  the  evening  before,  sitting 
on  the  sofa  with  red  eyes  and  a  pale  face.  In  answer 
to  their  anxious  questioning  she  told  them  that  Claude 
had  been  called  away.  Two  officers  had  come  for  him 
close  upon  midnight;  he  had  scarcely  had  time  to  pack 
a  few  things.  He  had  taken  his  surgical  outfit;  then 

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they  had  hurried  him  away  with  short  words  and 
anxious  faces. 

"But  where — where  has  he  gone  to?"  asked  Cherie. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  her  sister-in-law,  and  the  tears 
gathered  in  her  dark  eyes.  "They  said  something 
about  his  being  sent  to  a  field  ambulance,  or  to  ... 
to  the  Depot  Central  .  .  ." 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Mireille;  but  as  nobody 
knew,  nobody  answered. 

Mariette  the  maid  brought  in  the  breakfast,  fol- 
lowed by  her  mother,  Marie  the  cook;  and  they  both 
had  red  eyes  and  were  weeping.  Marie  said  that  her 
two  sons  had  come  to  the  house  at  dawn  to  bid  her 
and  Mariette  good-bye;  the  eldest,  Toinot,  belonged 
to  the  9th  line  regiment  and  had  been  sent  off  to 
Stavelot;  and  Charles,  the  youngest,  had  volunteered 
and  was  being  sent  off  heaven  knows  where. 

"Of  course  there  is  nothing  to  cry  about,"  added 

Marie,  with  large  round  tears  rolling  down  her  ruddy 

face.     "There  is  no  danger  for  our  country.     But  still 

—to  see  one's  boys — going  away  like  that — s-s-sing- 

ing  the  B-b-brabangonne — "  she  broke  into  sobs. 

"Of  course,  my  good  Marie,"  echoed  Louise, 
"there  is  nothing  to  cry  about  .  .  ." 

And  then  they  all  wept  bitterly.  Even  Frieda, 
with  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  sobbed — on  gen- 
eral principles,  and  also  because  Weltschmerz  gnawed 
at  her  treacherous,  sentimental  German  heart. 

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At  breakfast  every  one  felt  a  little  better.  As 
nearly  all  the  men  had  left  Bomal  or  were  about  to 
leave,  it  was  a  comfort  to  reflect  that  Fritz  Hollander, 
the  doctor's  confidential  servant,  being  a  Dutchman, 
was  not  obliged  to  go.  True,  he  was  a  somewhat 
sulky,  taciturn  person,  but  he  had  been  with  them 
two  years  and,  as  Loulou  remarked  while  she  poured 
out  the  coffee,  one  felt  that  one  could  trust  him. 

"I  always  trust  people  who  are  silent  and  look 
straight  at  you  when  you  speak,"  said  the  wise  Louise, 
who  was  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  admired  Georges 
Ohnet. 

"I  don't  like  Fritz,"  remarked  Mireille.  "I  hate 
the  shape  of  his  head — and  especially  his  ears,"  she 
added. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Cherie. 

Frieda,  who  was  just  dipping  a  fresh  roll  into  her 
coffee,  looked  up.  "He  has  the  ears  God  gave  him," 
she  remarked,  with  pinched  and  somewhat  tremulous 
lips. 

Every  one  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  and  she 
flushed  scarlet  as  she  bent  her  head  and  dipped  her 
roll  into  her  cup  again. 

After  breakfast  Louise  went  to  rest  for  a  few 
hours;  Frieda  said  she  had  some  letters  to  write,  and 
the  two  girls  went  out  to  call  on  their  friends  and  make 
plans  as  to  what  they  would  do  on  Cherie's  birthday, 
the  4th  of  August. 

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They  went  to  Madame  Dore's  house  in  the  Place 
du  Marche  and  found  their  friends  Cecile  and  Jean- 
nette  busy  with  their  boy-scout  brother,  Andre;  they 
were  sewing  a  band  with  S.M.  on  it,  on  the  right 
sleeve  of  his  green  shirt. 

"What  is  S.M.?"  inquired  Mireille. 

"That  means  Service  Militaire,"  replied  Andre 
proudly. 

"Fancy!"  exclaimed  Mireille.  "And  you  only 
fifteen!" 

Andre  passed  his  left  hand  carelessly  over  his  fair 
hair.  "Oh  yes,"  he  said,  with  very  superior  non- 
chalance. "There  are  four  thousand  of  us.  We 
shall  have  to  take  care  of  you  women,"  he  glanced 
with  raised  eyebrows  at  the  small,  admiring  Mireille, 
"now  that  the  other  men  have  gone." 

"Keep  your  arm  quiet,"  said  Cecile,  "or  I  shall 
prick  you." 

"Where  is  your  father?"  asked  Cherie.  "Has  he 
left,  too?" 

"Yes,"  said  Andre.  "He  has  been  called  out  for 
duty  in  the  Garde  Civique.  He  is  stationed  on  the 
Chaussee  de  Louvain,  not  far  from  Brussels." 

"Isn't  it  all  exciting?"  cried  Jeannette,  jumping  up 
and  down. 

"But  against  whom  are  we  going  to  fight?"  asked 
Mireille. 

"We  don't  know  yet,"  declared  Andre.  "Perhaps 
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against  the  French;  perhaps  against  the  Germans." 
"Perhaps  against  nobody,"  said  Cecile,  biting  off 

the  thread  and  patting  the  neatly-sewn  armlet  on  her 

brother's  sleeve. 

"Perhaps  against  nobody,"  echoed  Andre,  with  a 

boyish  touch  of  ruefulness.     "Nobody  will  dare  to 

invade  our  land." 

"Come,  let  us  go  into  the  garden,"  said  Jeannette. 


Thus  it  was  in  Belgium  on  the  eve  of  her  impend- 
ing doom.  Doubtless  in  high  places — in  the  Palais 
de  la  Nation  and  the  Place  Royale — there  were  hearts 
filled  with  racking  anxiety  and  feverish  excitement; 
but  throughout  the  country  there  was  merely  a  sense 
of  resolute  expectancy,  of  not  altogether  unpleasant 
excitement.  Every  one  knew  that  the  sacrosanct 
rights  of  the  land  would  be  respected,  but  it  was  just 
as  good,  they  said,  to  be  ready  for  every  event. 

Nobody  on  that  summer  evening,  from  the  remotest 
corner  of  Belgian  Luxembourg  to  the  farthest  home- 
stead in  Flanders,  as  they  watched  that  last  July  sun 
go  down  over  the  peaceful  fields  of  grain,  dreamed 
that  the  Grey  Wolves  of  War  were  already  snarling 
at  the  gates,  straining  to  be  let  loose  and  overrun 
the  world,  panting  to  get  to  their  work  of  slaughter 
and  destruction.  No  one  dreamed  that  four  days 
later  massacre  and  outrage  and  frenzied  ferocity 

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would  rage  through  the  shuddering  valleys  of  the 
Ardennes. 

Thus  while  Cherie  and  Cecile,  Jeannette  and 
Mireille  ran  out  into  their  sunshiny  garden,  at  that 
same  hour,  far  away  in  the  Wilhelmstrasse  a  man  with 
a  grey  beard  stood  on  a  balcony  and  spoke  to  a  surg- 
ing crowd — promising  blood  to  the  wolves. 

Thus  while  the  four  fair  girls  planned  what  they 
would  do  on  the  4th  of  August,  on  that  balcony  in 
Berlin  their  fate  and  the  fate  of  Europe  was  being 
pronounced. 

"We  shall  invite  Lucile,  Cri-cri,  and  Verveine," 
said  Cherie. 

"We  shall  dash  those  aside  who  stand  in  our  way," 
said  the  man  on  the  balcony. 

"We  shall  dance,"  said  Mireille. 

"We  shall  grind  our  heel  upon  their  necks,"  said 
von  Bethmann-Hollweg. 

And  the  Grey  Wolves  roared. 


-27- 


CHAPTER  III 
CHERIE'S  DIARY 

THIS  is  August  the  1st.  In  three  days  I  shall  be 
eighteen.  At  eighteen  one  is  grown  up;  one  pins  up 
one's  hair,  and  one  may  use  perfume  on  one's  hand- 
kerchief and  think  of  whom  one  is  going  to  love. 

The  weather  is  very  hot. 

Cecile  tells  me  that  she  saw  Florian  Audet  ride  past 
this  morning;  he  was  at  the  head  of  his  company  of 
Lancers,  and  looked  very  straight  and  handsome  and 
stern;  like  Lohengrin,  she  said.  I  do  not  suppose  he 
will  remember  my  birthday  with  all  this  excitement 
about  manoeuvres  and  mobilizing. 

There  is  no  news  at  all  about  Amour.  We  are 
very  unhappy  about  him. 

Later. — Claude  has  written  to  say  that  he  is  or- 
dered to  Mons  and  that  there  may  be  an  invasion,  and 
that  whatever  happens  we  are  all  to  be  brave.  We 
were  not  at  all  frightened  until  we  read  that;  but  now 
of  course  we  are  terrified  out  of  our  wits.  Every 
time  the  bell  rings  we  think  it  is  the  enemy  and  we 
scream.  (Motto — to  remember.  It  is  better  never 

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to  tell  any  one  to  be  brave  because  it  makes  them 
frightened.) 

August  2nd. — It  is  very  hot  again  today.  We 
wished  we  were  in  Westende.  How  nice  it  was  there, 
bicycling  on  the  sand  in  one's  bathing  dress!  One 
day  I  rode  all  the  way  to  the  Yser  and  back.  The 
Yser  is  a  pretty  blue  canal  and  a  man  with  a  boat 
ferries  you  across  for  ten  centimes  to  Nieuport.  Of 
course  that  day  I  did  not  want  to  go  to  Nieuport  be- 
cause I  was  in  my  bathing  dress;  besides,  I  had  no 
pocket  and  therefore  no  money. 

I  do  not  seem  to  write  very  important  things  in  this 
diary;  my  brother  Claude  gave  it  me  and  said  I  was 
not  to  fill  it  with  futile  nonsense.  But  nothing  really 
important  ever  happens. 

There  is  no  news  of  Amour. 

Germany  has  declared  war  upon  Russia;  of  course 
that  is  important,  but  I  do  not  write  about  it  as  it  is 
more  for  newspapers  than  for  a  diary.  Louise  says 
Germany  is  quite  in  the  wrong,  but  as  we  are  neutral 
we  are  not  to  say  so. 

Later. — We  are  going  out  for  an  excursion  this 
afternoon  as  it  is  Sunday.  We  are  going  with  Frieda 
to  Roche-a-Frene,  to  ramble  about  in  the  rocks,  and 
Fritz  is  to  follow  us  with  a  hamper  of  sandwiches, 
milk  and  fruit.  Loulou  is  coming  too.  It  was 
Mireille  who  suggested  it.  She  said  she  thought  we 
had  been  quite  miserable  enough.  Mireille  is  very 

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intelligent  and  also  pretty,  except  that  her  hair  does 
not  curl. 

Evening,  late. — As  nothing  important  has  happened 
today — except  one  thing — I  will  write  in  this  diary 
about  the  excursion. 

(The  important  thing  is  that  I  saw  Florian,  and  that 
he  says  he  will  come  to  my  birthday  party.)  But 
now  about  the  excursion.  We  were  almost  cheerful 
after  being  so  wretched  and  frightened  and  unhappy 
all  the  morning  about  the  war. 

Even  Loulou  said  that  it  was  difficult  to  think  that 
anything  dreadful  would  happen  with  such  a  bright 
sun  shining  and  the  sky  so  blue.  Frieda  was  sulky 
and  silent,  and  kept  dropping  behind  to  be  near  Fritz. 
Loulou  said  that  perhaps  if  Germany  does  not  be- 
have properly  all  the  Germans  will  be  sent  away  from 
Belgium.  That  means  that  Frieda  would  have  to  go. 
We  should  not  be  sorry  if  she  did.  She  is  so  changed 
of  late.  When  we  speak  to  her  she  does  not  answer; 
when  we  laugh  or  say  anything  funny  she  looks  at  us 
with  round,  staring  eyes  that  Mireille  says  are  like 
those  of  a  crazy  cat  that  stalks  about  in  the  evening. 
I  suggested  that  perhaps  Frieda  is  in  love,  as  I  am  told 
that  it  is  love  that  makes  those  evening  cats  so  crazy. 
It  would  be  quite  romantic  and  interesting  if  Frieda 
were  in  love.  Perhaps  if  Fritz  Hollander  were  not 
just  a  servant — Frieda  is  more  of  a  demoiselle  de 
compagnie — I  should  say  that  she  might  be  in  love 

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with  him.     But  he  never  looks  at  her  except  to  scowl. 

Today  on  our  excursion  I  saw  him  do  a  funny 
thing.  We  came  upon  a  spring  of  water  hidden 
among  the  rocks,  and  while  the  others  went  on  I  stayed 
behind  and  clambered  about,  picking  ferns.  Fritz 
had  also  left  the  road,  and  was  coming  along  behind 
us.  As  he  caught  sight  of  the  water  he  stopped.  He 
took  a  little  notebook  from  his  pocket,  tore  out  a 
sheet,  and  having  looked  round  as  if  he  feared  some 
one  might  be  watching  him,  he  scribbled  something  on 
the  paper.  Then  he  hurried  back  to  the  road  and 
stuck  the  paper  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  I  thought  it 
must  be  a  love-letter  or  some  message,  so  I  slipped 
down  the  rocks  and  went  to  look  at  it.  There  were 
only  two  words  written  on  the  scrap  of  paper: 
"Trinkwasser — rechts." 

I  found  that  very  strange.  We  never  thought  he 
knew  German.  I  wondered  why  he  did  it  and  was 
going  to  ask  him,  but  when  he  saw  me  he  looked  so 
cross  that  I  did  not  dare.  Later  on,  as  we  rambled 
about  in  the  wood  we  came  upon  another  piece  of 
paper  stuck  on  a  tree.  "Trinkwasser — links,"  was 
written  on  it.  I  told  Loulou  what  I  had  seen,  and  she 
went  straight  to  Fritz  and  asked  him  what  it  meant. 
He  said  he  had  done  it  for  Frieda,  so  that  she  should 
know  where  to  find  water. 

"She  is  a  thirsty  soul,"  he  added,  and  he  laughed, 
showing  a  lot  of  small,  rabbity  teeth.  I  do  not  think 

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I  have  ever  seen  Fritz  laugh  all  the  time  he  has  been 
with  us;  he  does  not  look  very  nice  when  he  does. 

But — as  Frieda  says  of  his  ears — I  suppose  he  has 
the  laugh  God  gave  him. 

The  walk  about  Roche-a-Frene  was  fantastic  and 
beautiful. 

After  eating  our  sandwiches  we  lay  on  the  grass 
and  looked  at  the  sky. 

Perhaps  I  dozed,  for  suddenly  I  thought  I  was  in 
Westende  the  day  that  the  areoplane  passed  above  me 
as  I  swam  far  out  in  the  sea.  I  heard  the  angry  whirr 
of  the  engine,  but  this  time  it  seemed  to  sound  much 
louder  than  any  I  had  ever  heard. 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  there  it  was,  above  us,  flying 
very  high  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  beetle. 
It  was  all  white  except  for  a  panel  of  sky-blue  painted 
across  the  centre  of  each  wing.  I  noticed  that  its 
wings  were  not  straight  as  all  the  others  I  have  seen, 
but  sweeping  backwards  like  those  of  a  bird.  I  called 
out  to  the  others,  and  Mireille  said — 

"How  lovely  it  is!  Like  a  white  beetle  with  blue 
under  its  wings!" 

Then  an  extraordinary  thing  happened.  Fritz,  who 
had  been  sitting  some  distance  off  looking  at  a  paper, 
leaped  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  He  is 
short-sighted,  and  his  glasses  dropped  off  his  nose 
into  the  grass. 

"My  glasses,  my  glasses!"  he  cried  out,  a»  if  he 
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were  quite  off  his  head.  And  Frieda  actually  ran  to 
look  for  them,  just  as  if  she  were  his  servant.  "What 
did  she  say?"  Fritz  was  crying;  "like  a  beetle? 
white?  with  blue  under  its  wings?"  Frieda  kept 
looking  up  and  saying,  "Ja!  ja!  ja!"  and  Fritz  was 
calling  for  his  glasses.  They  both  seemed  demented. 
The  scarab-like  aeroplane  whirred  out  of  sight. 

Loulou  had  got  up  and  was  very  pale.  She  made 
us  go  home  at  once  and  never  spoke  all  the  way. 

It  was  when  we  were  passing  through  Suzaine  that 
we  met  Florian.  He  was  on  horseback.  I  did  not 
think  he  looked  like  Lohengrin,  but  more  like  Charles 
le  Temeraire,  or  the  Cid,  el  Campeador. 

He  told  us — and  his  horse  kept  prancing  and  danc- 
ing about  while  he  spoke — that  his  regiment  was  en- 
camped on  the  banks  of  the  Meuse  awaiting  orders. 
They  might  be  sent  to  the  frontier  at  any  moment. 
But,  unless  that  happened,  he  said  he  would  make  a 
point  of  coming  to  see  us  on  the  4th — even  if  he  could 
only  get  an  hour's  leave.  I  reminded  him  that  he  had 
never  missed  coming  to  see  us  on  that  day  since  the 
very  first  birthday  I  had  in  Claude's  house,  when  I  was 
eight  years  old  and  my  father  and  mother  had  just 
died  in  Namur. 

Loulou  always  tells  me  that  I  was  like  a  little  wild 
thing,  shrinking  and  trembling  and  weeping  in  my 
black  dress,  and  afraid  of  everybody.  On  that  par- 
ticular birthday  I  wept  so  much  that  my  brother 

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Claude  had  the  idea  of  sending  for  Florian — who  is 
his  godson — and  asking  him  to  try  and  make  friends 
with  me.  I  remember  Florian  coming  into  the  room 
—this  very  room  that  I  am  writing  in  now — a  boy 
of  fourteen  with  short  curly  hair  and  very  clear  steely- 
blue  eyes.  A  little  like  Andre  but  better-looking. 
He  was  what  Loulou  calls  "tres-crdne"  "Bonjour," 
he  said  to  me  in  his  firm,  clear  voice.  "My  name  is 
Florian.  I  hate  girls."  I  thought  that  rather  a 
funny  thing  to  say,  so  I  stopped  crying  and  gave  a 
little  laugh.  "Girls."  Florian  continued,  looking  at 
me  with  disapproval,  "are  always  either  moping  or 
giggling." 

I  stopped  giggling  at  once;  and  I  also  left  off  mop- 
ing so  as  not  to  be  hated  by  Florian. 

All  these  thoughts  passed  through  my  head  as  I 
watched  him  bending  down  and  talking  to  Loulou 
very  quickly  and  earnestly,  while  his  horse  was  danc- 
ing about  sideways  all  over  the  road.  He  certainly 
looked  like  a  very  young  Charles  le  Temeraire  or  like 
the  knight  who  went  to  waken  la  Belle  au  Bois  dor- 
mant. 

August  3rd. — We  are  very  happy.  Amour  is  safe! 
He  is  in  the  care  of  the  station-master  at  Marche  and 
Andre  is  going  very  early  tomorrow  morning  to  fetch 
him.  Andre  says  that  fetching  dogs  is  not  exactly  a 
Service  Militaire,  but  it  is  in  the  line  of  a  Scout's  work 
to  sally  forth  in  subservience  to  ladies'  wishes,  and 

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obey  their  behests.  He  said  he  would  wear  Mireille's 
colours,  and  she  gave  him  the  crumpled  Scotch  rib- 
bon from  the  bottom  of  her  plait. 

We  have  invited  Lucile,  Jeannette,  Cecile  and  Cri- 
cri,  to  come  tomorrow  evening.  It  will  not  be  a  real 
birthday  party  with  dancing  as  it  was  last  year,  be- 
cause everything  is  uncomfortable  and  unsettled  ow- 
ing to  the  Germans  behaving  so  badly.  However 
neutral  one  may  be,  one  cannot  help  being  very  dis- 
gusted with  them.  Even  Frieda  had  a  hang-dog  air 
today  when  Loulou  read  out  loud  that  the  Germans 
had  actually  sent  a  note  to  our  King  proposing  that 
he  should  let  them  march  through  our  country  to  get  at 
France!  Of  course  our  King  has  said  No.  And  we 
all  went  out  to  the  Place  de  1'Eglise  to  cheer  for  him 
this  afternoon.  It  was  Andre  who  came  to  tell  us 
that  all  Bomal  was  going. 

It  was  beautiful  and  every  one  was  very  enthusi- 
astic. The  Bourgmestre  made  a  speech ;  then  we  sang 
la  Brabangonne  and  the  dear  old  Cure  invoked  a 
blessing  on  our  land  and  on  our  King.  We  all  waved 
handkerchiefs  and  some  people  wept.  Marie  and 
Mariette  came  too,  but  Frieda  hid  in  the  house,  being 
ashamed  of  her  country,  as  she  may  well  be. 

Fritz  was  there,  and  Mariette  remarked  that  he 
seemed  to  be  the  only  young  man  left  in  Bomal.  It 
is  true.  All  the  others  have  either  been  called  to 
military  service  or  have  gone  as  volunteers.  The 

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Square  today  was  full  of  girls  and  children  and  quite 
old  people. 

I  felt  rather  pleased  that  Fritz  belongs  to  us.  "A 
man  in  the  house  gives  one  a  sense  of  security,"  said 
Loulou  the  other  day.  I  reminded  her  of  it  as  we 
were  coming  home,  but  she  seemed  worried  and  un- 
happy. "Since  your  brother  has  left,"  she  said, 
"Fritz  is  very  much  changed.  He  does  not  behave 
like  a  servant;  he  never  asks  for  my  orders.  Yes- 
terday at  Roche-a-Frene  he  was  like  a  lunatic.  And 
so  was  Frieda."  Poor  Loulou  looked  very  white  as 
she  said  this,  and  added  that  she  wished  Claude  would 
come  back. 

There  is  certainly  something  curious  about  Fritz. 
This  evening  he  brought  us  the  paper  and  stood  look- 
ing at  us  while  we  opened  it.  I  read  over  Loulou's 
shoulder  that  the  Germans  had  marched  into  the 
Grand-duchy  of  Luxembourg  and  taken  possession  of 
the  railways  as  if  the  place  belonged  to  them.  When 
I  raised  my  eyes  I  saw  Fritz  staring  at  us  and  he  had 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  took  them  out  when 
Loulou  looked  up  and  spoke  to  him. 

She  said,  "Fritz,  this  is  dreadful  news";  and  he 
said,  "Yes,  madam,"  and  smiled  that  curious  rabbity 
smile  of  his. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Loulou,  "did  the  master  say  any- 
thing to  you  when  you  saw  him  to  the  train  the  other 
night?" 

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"Yes,  madam,"  said  Fritz. 

"What — what  did  he  say?"  asked  Loulou  very 
anxiously. 

Fritz  waited  a  long  time  before  he  answered. 
"The  master  said" — and  he  smiled  that  horrible  smile 
again, — "the  master  said  I  was  to  protect  you  in  case 
those  dogs  came  here.  That's  what  he  said — those 
dogs!  Those  dogs — "  he  repeated,  glaring  at  Lou- 
lou and  at  me  until  we  felt  quite  strange  and  sick. 

Little  Mireille  had  just  come  into  the  room,  and  she 
asked  somewhat  anxiously,  "What  dogs  are  you  talk- 
ing about?" 

Fritz  wheeled  round  on  her  with  a  savage  look. 
"German  dogs,"  said  he.  "And  they  bite." 

Nobody  spoke  for  a  moment.  Then  Loulou  sighed. 
"Who  would  have  conceived  it  possible  a  month  ago!" 
she  murmured.  "Why,  even  ten  days  ago,  no  one 
dreamed  of  war." 

Fritz  took  a  step  forward.  "Some  of  us  have  been 
dreaming  of  war,"  he  said — and  there  was  something 
in  his  tone  that  made  Loulou  look  up  at  him  with 
startled  eyes, — "dreaming  of  war,  not  for  the  past 
ten  days,  but  for  the  past  ten  years."  He  rolled  his 
eyes  at  us;  then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  out 
of  the  room. 

Loulou  has  written  a  long  letter  to  Claude.  But 
will  it  reach  him? 

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CHAPTER  IV 
MIREILLE'S  DIARY 

THIS  is  an  important  day,  August  the  4th — Cherie's 
birthday.  Loulou  has  given  her  a  gold  watch  and  a 
sky-blue  chiffon  scarf;  and  I  gave  her  a  box  of  choco- 
lates— almost  full! — and  a  rubber  face  that  makes 
grimaces  according  to  how  you  squeeze  it,  and  also  a 
money-box  in  the  shape  of  an  elephant  that  bobs  its 
head  when  you  put  money  in  it  and  keeps  on  bobbing 
for  quite  a  long  time  afterwards;  Cecile  and  Jeannette 
sent  roses,  Lucile  and  Cri-cri  a  box  of  fondants,  and 
Verveine  Mellot,  from  whom  we  never  expected  any- 
thing, sent  a  parasol.  We  had  not  invited  Verveine 
for  tonight  because  she  lives  so  far  away,  quite  out  of 
the  village;  but  we  shall  do  so  now  because  of  the 
parasol. 

We  nearly  had  no  party  at  all,  Maman  and  Cherie 
being  worried  about  the  Germans.  But  I  cried,  and 
they  hate  to  see  me  cry,  so  they  said  that  just  those 
five  girls  whom  we  see  every  day  were  not  really  a 
party  at  all  and  they  might  come. 

The  great  event  of  today  has  been  that  Amour  has 
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arrived  in  his  basket,  with  14  francs  to  pay  on  him; 
we  were  very  glad,  and  Cherie  said  it  was  just  like 
receiving  a  new  dog  as  a  birthday  present.  Andre 
was  not  able  to  bring  Amour  himself  because  he  had 
been  sent  on  some  other  Service  Militaire  in  a  great 
hurry  on  his  motorcycle.  The  one  drawback  about 
Amour  has  been  that  he  took  the  rubber  face  in  his 
mouth  and  would  not  drop  it  and  hid  with  it.  We 
found  it  afterwards  under  the  bed,  but  most  of  the 
colours  had  been  licked  off  and  Mariette  says  it  is 
permanently  distorted. 

Mariette  and  Marie  are  going  away  today.  They 
are  taking  only  a  few  things  and  are  going  to  Liege, 
where  they  say  they  will  feel  safer.  Marie  said  we 
ought  to  go  too,  and  Maman  answered  that  if  things 
went  on  like  this  we  certainly  should.  Maman  has 
cried  a  good  deal  today;  and  Frieda  is  shamming 
sick  and  has  locked  herself  in  her  room.  We  have  not 
seen  Fritz  since  last  night.  Altogether  everything  is 
very  fearful  and  exciting.  Dinner  is  going  to  be  like 
a  picnic  with  nothing  much  to  eat ;  but  there  are  cakes 
and  sweets  and  little  curly  sandwiches,  all  beautifully 
arranged  with  flowers,  on  the  long  table  for  this  eve- 
ning; and  we  shall  drink  orangeade  and  grenadine. 
We  were-to  have  had  ices  as  well,  but  the  pdtissier  has 
joined  the  army  and  his  wife  has  too  many  children 
and  is  so  miserable  that  she  will  not  make  ices.  She 
told  us  that  her  husband  and  other  soldiers  were  dig- 

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ging  ditches  all  round  Belgium  to  prevent  the  Ger- 
mans from  coming  in. 

Now  I  am  going  to  dress.  I  shall  wear  pink,  and 
Cherie  will  be  all  in  white  like  a  bride.  She  will  have 
her  hair  up  for  the  first  time,  done  all  in  curls  and 
whirligigs,  to  look  like  that  cake  Frieda  calls  Kugel- 
hopf. 

Maman  is  going  to  make  herself  pretty  too.  She 
has  promised  not  to  think  of  war  or  of  the  Germans 
until  tomorrow  morning  because,  as  Cherie  said,  one 
is  eighteen  only  once  in  one's  life.  Now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  one  is  also  eleven  only  once  in  one's  life. 
I  shall  remember  to  say  that  when  my  next  birthday 
comes. 


While  Mireille  sat  in  the  little  study  writing  her 
diary  with  exceeding  care,  her  head  very  much  on  one 
side  and  the  tip  of  her  tongue  moving  slowly  from  one 
side  of  her  half-open  mouth  to  the  other,  the  door 
was  opened  and  Fritz  looked  into  the  room.  He  shut 
the  door  again,  and  having  listened  for  a  moment  on 
the  landing  to  the  soft-murmuring  voices  of  Louise 
and  Cherie,  he  went  upstairs  to  the  second  floor  and 
turned  the  handle  of  Frieda's  door.  It  was  locked. 

"Open  the  door,"  he  said. 

Frieda  obeyed.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  she 
opened  her  door  to  Fritz. 

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"How  loud  you  speak,"  she  murmured,  locking  and 
bolting  the  door  again,  "they  may  hear  you." 

"I  don't  care  if  they  do,"  said  Fritz,  sitting  down 
and  lighting  a  cigarette.  "For  two  years  I  have 
played  the  servant.  Tomorrow  I  shall  be  the  mas- 
ter." 

"Tomorrow!"  gasped  Frieda.  "Is  it — as  near  as 
all  that?" 

"Nearer,  perhaps,"  murmured  Fritz  looking  out  of 
the  window  at  the  crimsoning  western  sky.  The 
round  red  August  sun  had  set,  but  the  day  still  lin- 
gered, as  if  loth  to  end.  Where  the  sky  was  lightest 
it  bore  on  its  breast  the  colourless  crescent  of  the 
moon,  like  a  pale  wound  by  which  the  day  must  die. 

"Nearer,  perhaps,"  repeated  Fritz.  "Be  ready  to 
leave." 

That  day  the  storm  had  already  broken  over  Eu- 
rope. The  Grey  Wolves  were  pouring  into  Belgium 
from  the  south-east.  At  Dohain,  at  Francorchamps, 
at  Stavelot  the  grey  line  rolled  in,  wave  on  wave, 
and  in  their  wake  came  violence  and  death. 

But  the  guns  were  not  speaking  yet.  In  the  vil- 
lage of  Bomal,  a  bare  twenty  miles  away,  nobody 
knew  of  it;  and  Louise,  fastening  a  rose  in  Cherie's 
shining  tresses  said,  "We  will  think  of  the  war 
tomorrow." 

Cherie  kissed  her  and  smiled.  She  smiled  some- 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


what  wistfully,  and  gazed  at  her  own  lovely  reflection 
in  the  mirror.  The  hot  blue  day  had  faded  into  a 
gentle  blue  evening  and  Florian  Audet  had  not  kept 
his  promise.  Perhaps,  thought  Cherie,  his  regiment 
has  received  orders  to  leave  their  encampment  on  the 
Meuse;  perhaps  he  has  been  sent  to  the  frontier,  but 
still — and  she  sighed — she  would  have  loved  to  have 
seen  him  and  bidden  him  good-bye.  .  .  . 

But  now  little  Mireille  in  her  pink  frock,  looking 
like  a  blossom  blown  from  a  peach-tree,  came  run- 
ning in  to  call  her.  The  door-bell  had  rung  and 
there  was  no  one  to  answer  it,  since  Marie  and  Mari- 
ette  had  gone  and  Frieda  was  locked  in  her  room 
and  Fritz  had  vanished.  So  the  two  ran  lightly  down- 
stairs and  opened  the  door  to  Lucile  and  Cri-cri,  radi- 
ant in  pale  blue  muslin ;  and  soon  Cecile  and  Jeannette 
and  Verveine  arrived  too,  and  they  all  tripped  into 
the  drawing-room  with  light  skirts  swinging  and  buoy- 
ant curls  afloat. 

Verveine  sat  at  the  piano  and  the  others  danced 
and  sang. 

Sur  le  pont 

D'Avignon 

On  y  danse 

On  y  danse, 

Sur  le  pont 

D'Avignon 

On  y  danse 

Tout  en  rond! 


The  laughing  treble  voices  could  be  heard  through 
the  windows,  thrown  wide  open  to  the  mild  evening 
air,  and  a  young  soldier  on  horseback  galloping 
through  the  quiet  village  heard  the  song  before  he 
pulled  up  at  Dr.  Brandes's  door.  It  was  Florian 
Audet  keeping  his  promise. 

He  slipped  his  bridle  over  the  little  iron  gate  and 
rang  the  bell.  Louise  herself  came  down  and  opened 
the  door  to  him. 

"Ah,  Florian!  How  glad  Cherie  will  be!"  she 
exclaimed.  Then,  as  the  light  from  the  hall  beat 
full  on  his  set  face,  "Why,  how  pale  you  are!"  she 
cried. 

"I  must  speak  to  you,"  said  Florian  drawing  her 
into  the  doctor's  surgery  and  shutting  the  door. 

Louise  felt  her  heart  drop  like  a  stone  within  her. 
"Is  there  worse  news?" 

"The  worst  possible,"  said  Florian.  Then  his  eyes 
wandered  over  the  pretty,  helpless  figure  before  him. 
"Why  are  you  dressed  up  like  this?"  he  asked 
harshly. 

"Why,  Florian  ..."  stammered  Louise,  "it  is 
Cherie's  birthday  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

Sur  le  pont 
D'Avignon 
On  y  danse 
On  y  danse, 

sang  the  girlish  voices  upstairs. 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


Florian  turned  away  with  a  groan.  "What  shall 
I  do?"  he  muttered.  "What  will  be  the  end  of  it?" 
Turning  he  saw  Louise's  stricken  eyes  gazing  at  him, 
and  he  took  her  hand.  "Marraine,"  he  said,  "you  will 
be  very  brave — it  is  best  that  I  should  tell  you " 

"Yes,  Florian,"  said  Louise,  and  the  colour  ebbed 
slowly  from  her  face,  leaving  it  as  white  as  milk. 

"The  country  is  invaded  at  all  points.  There  has 
been  fighting  at  Verviers  .  .  ." 

"At  Verviers!"  gasped  Louise,  and  her  large  eyes 
were  like  inkblots  in  her  colourless  face. 

"Yes,  and  at  Fleron." 

There  was  silence.  Then  Louise  spoke.  "What 
— what  will  happen  to  us?  What  does  it  mean  .  .  . 
to  our  country?" 

"It  means  ruin  and  butchery,"  muttered  Florian 
through  his  clenched  teeth;  "it  means  violence,  carn- 
age, and  devastation."  Then  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  room.  "We  are  holding  Vise,"  he  mut- 
tered, "we  are  holding  it  against  Von  Emmich's  hell- 
hounds. And  when  we  cannot  hold  it  any  longer  we 
will  blow  up  the  bridge  on  the  Meuse." 

Louise  had  sunk  into  a  chair.  For  a  few  moments 
neither  spoke.  Then  Louise  looked  up. 

"Will  they — is  it  likely  that  they  will  come 
here?" 

"They  may,"  said  Florian  gravely,  and  as  he  looked 
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at  her  and  thought  of  her  alone  in  the  house  with 
Cherie  and  Mireille  a  spasm  crossed  his  face  and 
tightened  his  lips. 

"Will  you  be  with  us?"  asked  Louise,  gazing  at  his 
stalwart  figure  and  strong  clenched  hands.  "How 
long  can  you  stay  here?" 

"Forty  minutes,"  replied  Florian  bitterly. 

Again  there  was  silence.  Then  he  said,  "What 
about  that  Dutchman — Claude's  servant?  Where 
is  he?" 

"Fritz?"  said  Louise,  trembling.  Then  she  told 
him  what  had  taken  place  the  night  before,  and  also 
the  events  at  Roche-a-Frene.  Florian  listened  to  her 
with  grim  face.  Then  he  strode  up  and  down  the 
room  again  in  silence. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  have  promised  to  be 
brave.  You  must  listen  to  what  I  tell  you  and  obey 
me." 

He  gave  her  brief,  precise  instructions.  They  were 
to  pack  their  few  most  valuable  possessions  at  once, 
and  leave  for  Bomal  early  next  morning  for  Brussels, 
via  Marche  and  Namur — not  Liege.  "Remember," 
he  added,  "not  Liege."  If  no  trains  were  available 
they  must  hire  a  carriage,  or  a  cart,  or  anything  they 
could  get.  If  no  vehicle  could  be  found,  then  they 
must  go  on  foot  to  Huy  and  thence  to  Namur.  "Do 
you  understand?" 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


Yes,  Louise  understood. 

Why  not  start  now, — this  evening?  he  suggested. 
They  could  go  through  the  wood  to  Tervagne 

Through  the  wood  to  Tervagne!  ...  in  the  dark! 
Louise  looked  so  terrified  that  he  did  not  insist.  Be- 
sides, he  reflected,  there  might  be  Uhlans  scouting  in 
the  woods  tonight.  No.  They  must  leave  at  dawn. 
At  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Was  that 
understood? 

Yes,  it  was  understood. 

"And — and "  asked  Louise,  "what  are  we  to 

do  with  Frieda?" 

"Don't  trust  her.  But  take  her  with  you  if  she 
wants  to  go.  Otherwise  leave  her  alone.  Keep 
your  doors  locked." 

"Yes." 

"And  have  you  got  money?" 

Yes,  they  had  plenty  of  money. 

"And  now,"  said  Florian,  looking  at  his  watch, 
which  told  him  that  twenty  of  the  forty  minutes  had 
passed,  "I  should  like  to  see  Cherie." 

"I  will  call  her,"  said  Louise;  then,  at  the  door 
she  turned  to  question  him  with  her  fear-stricken  eyes, 
"Shall  I  tell  them — shall  I  tell  the  children  of  the 
danger  that  threatens  us?" 

"Yes,  you  must  tell  them,"  said  Florian.  "And 
send  them  to  their  homes  at  once." 

"Oh,  what  will  Mireille  do?"  gasped  Louise.  "What 
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if  she  were  to  cry?  What  if  she  were  to  fall  ill  with 
fear?" 

"Little  Mireille  is  braver  than  we  are,"  he  said, 
smiling  and  putting  his  arm  around  her  drooping 
shoulders.  "Courage,  petite  marraine,"  and  he  bent 
over  her  with  fraternal  tenderness  and  kissed  her 
cheek. 

He  was  left  alone  for  a  few  moments;  he  heard 
the  singing  overhead  stop  suddenly.  Light  fluttering 
footsteps  came  running  down  the  stairs;  the  door 
opened  and  Cherie  stood  on  the  threshold. 

He  caught  his  breath.  Was  this  vision  of  beauty 
in  the  floating  silken  draperies  his  little  friend 
Cherie?  How  had  she  been  transformed  without  his 
noticing  it  from  the  awkward  little  schoolgirl  he  had 
known  into  this  enchanting  flower-like  loveliness? 
She  noticed  his  wonder  and  stood  still,  smiling  and 
drawing  a  diaphanous  scarf  that  floated  mistily  about 
her  somewhat  closer  over  her  pearly  shoulders.  Her 
limpid  eyes  gazed  up  at  him  with  blue  and  heavenly 
innocence. 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  man  as  he  looked  at 
her — a  shudder  of  prescient  horror.  Were  not  the 
wolves  on  the  way  already?  Were  not  the  blood- 
drunken  hordes  already  tearing  and  slashing  their 
way  towards  this  virginal  flower?  Must  he  leave 
her  to  the  mercy  of  their  foul  and  furious  lust? 

Again  the  fearful  shudder  passed  through  him. 
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And  still  those  limpid,  childish  eyes  gazed  up  at  him 
and  smiled. 

"Cherie!"  he  said.  "Cherie!"  and  with  his  hand 
he  raised  the  delicate  face  to  his,  and  gazed  into  the 
azure  wonder  of  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  speak.  Nor  did  her  lashes  flutter. 
She  let  him  look  deeply  into  the  translucent  profundity 
of  her  soul. 

"Cherie!"  he  said  again.  And  no  other  word  was 
spoken  or  needed. 

The  forty  minutes  had  passed.  There  was  a  hur- 
ried leave-taking,  a  few  eager  words  of  warning  and 
admonition;  then  Florian  had  run  downstairs,  spurs 
clinking,  and  swung  himself  into  his  saddle. 

As  he  turned  the  prancing  horse's  head  to  the 
north  he  looked  up  at  the  windows.  Yes;  they  were 
all  there,  waving  their  hands,  clustered  together,  the 
blonde  heads  and  the  brown,  the  blue  eyes  end  the 
dark  eyes  following  him. 

"Remember,"  he  cried  to  Louise,  "remember — at 
dawn  tomorrow!  You  will  leave  tomorrow  at 
dawn."  And  even  as  he  spoke  the  unspeakable  shud- 
der thrilled  him  again.  Was  it  a  foreboding  of  what 
the  morrow  might  bring?  Was  it  a  vision  of  what 
the  tragic  and  sanguinary  dawn  had  in  store  for  those 
he  was  leaving,  alone  in  their  defenceless  beauty  and 
youth?  .  .  . 

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At  the  end  of  the  street  he  turned  again  and  saw 
that  Cherie  had  run  out  on  to  the  terrace  and  stood 
white  as  a  lily  in  the  moonlight,  gazing  after  him. 

He  raised  his  hand  high  in  the  air  in  token  of 
salute.  Then  he  rode  away.  He  rode  away  into  the 
night — away  towards  the  thunderous  guns  of  Liege, 
the  blood-drenched  fields  of  Vise.  And  he  carried 
with  him  that  vision  of  delicate  loveliness.  He  had 
spoken  no  word  of  love  to  her  nor  had  his  lips  dared 
to  touch  hers.  Her  etheral  purity  had  strangely  awed 
and  enthralled  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  halo 
of  her  virginal  youth  was  around  her  like  an  armour 
of  snow. 

Thus  he  left  her.  fragile  and  sweet — white  as  a  lily 
in  a  moonlit  garden. 

He  left  her  and  rode  away  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  young  girls  in  their  muslin  frocks  and  satin  shoes 
sped  homeward  like  a  flight  of  startled  butterflies. 
Did  they  dream  it,  or  was  there  really,  as  they  ran 
over  the  bridge,  a  booming,  rumbling  sound  like  dis- 
tant thunder?  They  stopped  and  listened.  Yes  .  .  . 
There  it  was  again,  the  deep  booming  noise  reverberat- 
ing through  the  starlit  night. 

"Jesus,  Marie,  St.  Joseph,  ayez  pitie  de  nous" 
whispered  Jeannette,  and  the  others  repeated  the  in- 
vocation. Then  they  ran  over  the  bridge  and  reached 
their  homes. 

Louise,  Cherie,  and  Mireille  were  left  alone  in  the 
deserted  house. 

Frieda's  room,  when  they  went  upstairs  to  look  for 
her,  was  empty.  Her  clothes  were  gone.  There  were 
only  a  few  of  her  books — "Deutscher  Dichterschatz," 
"Der  Trompeter  von  Sakkingen,"  and  Freiligrath's 
"Ausgewahlte  Lieder" — lying  on  the  table;  and  the 
plaster  bust  of  Mozart  was  still  in  its  place  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

"She  must  have  slipped  out  while  we  were  talking 
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with  Florian,"  said  Cherie,  turning  a  pale  face  to 
Loulou,  who  gazed  in  stupefaction  round  the  vacant 
room. 

"She  was  a  snake,"  said  Mireille,  slipping  her 
hand  through  her  mother's  arm  and  keeping  very 
close  to  her.  "And  so  was  Fritz." 

At  the  mention  of  Fritz,  Louise  shivered.  "I  do 
not  suppose  Fritz  has  come  back,"  she  said,  dropping 
her  voice  and  glancing  through  the  open  window  at 
the  darkened  outbuilding  across  the  courtyard.  "He 
is  surely  not  in  his  room." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  they  all  looked 
at  those  lightless  windows  over  the  garage.  The 
thought  of  Fritz  lurking  there,  waiting  perhaps  in  the 
dark  to  do  some  fiendish  work,  was  very  disquiet- 
ing. 

"We  must  go  and  look,"  said  Cherie.  So  holding 
each  other  very  close  and  carrying  a  lantern  high 
above  their  heads  they  went  across  the  quiet  courtyard 
up  the  creaky  wooden  stairs  to  Fritz's  room. 

Fritz  was  not  there.  But  his  trunk  was  in  its 
place  and  all  his  belongings  were  scattered  about. 

"It  looks  as  if  he  intended  to  come  back,"  said 
Cherie ;  and  they  trembled  at  the  thought.  Then  they 
went  downstairs  across  the  yard  and  into  the  house 
again.  They  were  careful  to  slam  the  heavy  front 
door  which  thus  locked  itself;  but  when  they  tried 
to  push  the  bolt  they  found  it  had  been  taken  away. 

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It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  distant  booming  sound 
fell  also  on  their  ears. 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Mireille. 

Cherie  put  her  arm  round  the  child.  "Nothing," 
she  said.  "Let  us  go  up  and  pack  our  things."  And 
as  Louise  still  stood  like  a  statue  staring  at  the  door 
with  the  lantern  in  her  hand  she  cried,  "Loulou,  go  up 
to  your  room  and  collect  what  you  will  take  with  you 
in  the  morning." 

And  Loulou  slowly,  walking  like  a  somnambulist, 
obeyed. 

How  difficult  to  choose,  from  all  the  things  we 
live  among,  just  what  we  can  take  away  in  our  two 
hands!  How  these  inanimate  things  grow  round  the 
heart  and  become  through  the  years  an  integral  part 
of  one's  life! 

What?  Must  one  take  only  money  and  a  few 
jewels,  and  not  this  picture?  Not  these  letters?  Not 
this  precious  gift  from  one  who  is  dead?  Not  the 
massive  silver  that  has  been  ours  for  generations? 
Not  the  veil  one  was  married  in?  Not  the  little  torn 
prayer-book  of  one's  first  communion?  Not  one's 
father's  campaign-medals,  or  the  packet  of  docu- 
ments that  prove  who  we  are  and  what  is  ours? 

What!  And  the  bird-cage  with  the  fluffy  canaries 
asleep  in  it?  Are  they  to  be  left  to  die?  And  the 
dog 

"Of  course  we  must  take  Amour,"  said  Cherie. 
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"Of  course,"  said  Loulou,  going  through  the  rooms 
like  a  wandering  spirit,  picking  things  up  and  put- 
ting them  down  in  a  bewildered  manner. 

A  clock  struck  eleven.  Mireille,  still  in  her  pink 
frock,  had  clambered  upon  her  mother's  bed  and  was 
nearly  asleep. 

Boom!  Again  that  low,  long  sound,  rumbling  and 
grumbling  and  dying  away. 

"It  is  nearer,"  breathed  Louise.  And  even  while 
she  said  it  the  sound  was  repeated,  and  it  was  nearer 
indeed  and  deeper,  and  the  windows  shook.  Mireille 
sat  up  with  wide,  shining  eyes. 

"Is  that  a  thunderstorm?  ...  Or  the  Germans?" 

"It  is  our  guns  firing  to  keep  the  Germans  away," 
said  Louise,  bending  over  her  and  kissing  her.  "Try 
to  sleep  for  an  hour,  my  darling." 

Mireille  lay  back  with  her  silken  hair  tossed  on 
the  pillow. 

"Are  the  Germans  trying  to  come  here?"  she  asked. 

There  was  silence.  Then  Cherie  said,  "I  don't 
think  so,"  and  Louise  added,  "Of  course  not." 

"But — might  they  want  to  come?"  insisted  Mireille, 
blinking  to  keep  her  eyes  open. 

"Why  should  they  come  here?"  said  her  mother. 
"What  would  they  want  in  this  little  out-of-the-way 
village?" 

"What  indeed?"  said  Cherie. 

Mireille  shut  her  eyes  and  thought  about  the  Ger- 
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mans.  She  knew  a  great  deal  about  them.  Frieda 
had  taught  her — with  the  aid  of  a  weekly  paper  from 
Munich  called  Fliegende  Blatter — all  the  character- 
istics of  the  nation.  The  Germans,  Mireille  had 
gathered,  were  divided  into  two  categories — Pro- 
fessors and  Lieutenants.  The  Professors  were  old 
men,  bald  and  funny;  the  Lieutenants  were  young 
men,  aristocratic  and  beautiful.  The  Professors  were 
so  absent-minded  that  they  never  knew  where  they 
were,  and  the  Lieutenants  were  so  fascinating  that 
girls  fainted  away  and  went  into  consumption  for 
love  of  them.  Frieda  admitted  that  there  were  a  few 
other  Germans — poets,  who  were  mostly  dead;  and 
housewives,  who  made  jam;  and  waiters,  who  were 
sent  to  England.  But  obviously  the  Germans  that 
had  got  into  Belgium  this  evening  were  the  Lieutenants 
and  the  Professors.  Mireille  nestled  into  her  pillow 
and  went  to  sleep.  She  dreamed  that  they  had  ar- 
rived and  were  very  amiable  and  much  impressed 
by  her  pink  dress. 

She  was  awakened  by  a  deafening  roar,  a  noise  of 
splintering  wood  and  falling  glass.  With  a  cry  of 
terror  she  started  up;  then  a  flash  blinded  her,  another 
roar  filled  the  air,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  world  were 
crashing  to  pieces. 

"Mireille!"  Her  mother's  arms  were  around  her 
and  Cherie  had  rushed  in  from  her  room  with  an 
ashen  face. 

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"Loulou,  let  us  go  at  once — let  us  go  to  the 
Bourgmestre  or  to  the  Cure!  We  cannot  stay  here 
alone!" 

"Yes  ...  let  us  go  .  .  ."  stammered  Louise. 
"But  who  will  carry  our  things?" 

"What  things?  We  take  no  things.  We  are  fugi- 
tives, Loulou!  Fugitives!  .  .  .  Quickly — quickly. 
Take  your  money  and  your  jewels — nothing 
else." 

"Quickly,  quickly,"  echoed  the  whimpering  Mi- 
reille. 

"If  we  are  fugitives,"  sobbed  Louise,  looking 
down  at  her  floating  chiffon  gown,  "we  cannot  go  out 
into  the  world  dressed  like  this." 

"We  cannot  stop  to  change  our  clothes  ...  we 
must  take  our  cloaks  and  dark  dresses  with  us,"  cried 
Cherie.  "Only  make  haste,  make  haste!" 

But  Louise  seemed  paralysed  with  fear.  "They 
will  come,  they  will  come,"  she  gasped,  gazing  at  the 
shattered  window;  the  throbbing  darkness  beyond 
seemed  to  mutter  the  words  Florian  had  spoken: 
"Outrage,  violence,  and  slaughter  .  .  .  outrage,  vio- 
lence, and  slaughter  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  a  sheaf  of  flame  rose  up  into  the  sky, 
illuminating  the  room  in  which  they  stood  with  a 
fantastic  yellow  glare.  Then  a  terrific  explosion 
shook  the  foundations  of  the  house. 

Louise  catching  Mireille  in  her  arms  stumbled  down 
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the  stairs  followed  by  Cherie.  They  knew  not  where 
they  were  going.  Another  explosion  roared  and 
shattered  the  coloured  staircase  window  above  them 
to  atoms,  driving  them  gasping  and  panic-stricken  into 
the  entrance-room. 

Did  hours  or  moments  pass?     They  never  knew. 

Now  there  were  voices,  loud  hoarse  voices,  in  the 
street;  short  guttural  commands  and  a  clatter  of  hoofs, 
a  clanking  of  sabres  and  spurred  heels. 

"Let  me  look — let  me  look  out  of  the  window," 
gasped  Cherie,  tearing  herself  free  from  Louise's 
convulsive  grasp.  She  stumbled  to  the  window,  then 
turned  a  haggard  face:  "They  are  here." 

Mireille  shrieked,  but  her  piping  voice  was  drowned 
by  the  noise  outside. 

"They  will  murder  us,"  sobbed  Louise. 

"Don't  cry!  don't  cry,"  wailed  Cherie.  "The  gate 
is  open  but  the  door  is  locked.  They  may  not  be  able 
to  get  in."  But  even  as  she  spoke  she  knew  the  fallacy 
of  that  hope. 

"Wait,"  she  whispered.  "They  are  trying  the 
door."  Louise  had  followed  her  to  the  window, 
clutching  at  the  curtains  lest  she  should  fall.  "Look, 
some  one  is  trying  to  open  the  door  .  .  ." 

Louise  bent  forward  and  looked  out.  "It  is 
Fritz  .  .  .  '  she  shrieked,  and  staggered  back. 
"Fritz!  He  has  opened  the  door  to  them!" 

Now  there  was  the  tramp  of  many  feet  on  the 
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stairs,  and  loud  voices  and  the  clanking  of  spurs  and 
sword. 

As  if  the  imminence  of  their  fate  had  suddenly  in- 
vested her  with  new  strength  and  dignity,  Louise 
stood  up,  tall  and  tragic,  between  the  two  trembling 
girls.  She  crossed  herself  slowly  and  devoutly; 
slowly  and  devoutly  she  traced  the  sign  of  the  cross 
on  Cherie's  forehead  and  on  Mireille's.  Then  with 
arms  entwined  they  stood  motionless.  They  were 
ready  to  die. 

The  door  was  kicked  open ;  military  figures  in  grey 
uniforms  thronged  the  passage  and  crowded  noisily 
forward. 

They  stopped  as  they  caught  sight  of  the  three  en- 
twined figures,  and  there  was  an  instant's  silence; 
then  an  officer — a  lean  man  with  a  grizzled  moustache 
— stepped  forward  into  the  room. 

Those  behind  him  drew  up  stiff  and  straight  on  the 
threshhold,  evidently  awaiting  orders. 

"Tiens,  tiens,  tiens!"  said  the  officer,  looking  the 
three  feminine  figures  up  and  down,  from  glossy  head 
to  dainty  feet,  and  his  grey  eyes  twinkled.  "A  charm- 
ing tableau.  You  have  made  yourselves  beautiful  to 
receive  us?"  His  French  was  perfect;  his  tone, 
though  slightly  contemptuous,  was  neither  rude  nor 
unkind ;  his  eyes  were  intelligent  and  humorous.  He 
did  not  look  like  a  hell-hound.  He  did  not  evoke 
the  idea  of  violence,  outrage,  and  slaughter. 

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In  a  sudden  reaction  from  the  supreme  tension  of 
terror  a  wave  of  faintness  overwhelmed  Louise.  Her 
soul  seemed  to  melt  away.  With  a  mighty  throb  of 
thankfulness  and  relief  she  felt  the  refluent  blood 
stream  to  her  heart  once  more. 

The  man  had  turned  to  the  soldiers  behind  him — 
two  seemed  to  be  junior  officers,  the  other  six  were 
men — and  gave  them  a  short,  sharp  order  in  Ger- 
man. They  drew  themselves  up  and  saluted.  The 
two  younger  officers  stepped  forward  and  stood  be- 
side him. 

One  of  them — a  tall  young  man  with  very  light 
eyes — held  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  at  the  request  of 
his  superior  officer  read  it  aloud.  The  older  man 
while  he  listened  seemed  to  be  surveying  the  apart- 
ment, looking  round  first  at  one  door,  then  at  the 
other,  then  at  the  upper  floors. 

Cherie  and  Mireille  were  amazed.  They  who  had 
learnt  German  with  Frieda  understood  what  was  be- 
ing read. 

It  was  a  brief,  precise  description  of  the  house  and 
its  occupants.  This  was  the  house  of  Claude  Leopold 
,  Brandes,  doctor,  and  reserve  officer,  age  thirty-eight, 
married.  His  wife,  his  child — a  daughter — and  his 
sister  lived  with  him.  There  were  twelve  rooms,  three 
attics,  a  basement;  kitchen,  scullery,  wash-house, 
harness-room,  stable.  There  was  a  landaulet,  a  small 
motor-car,  and  two  horses;  all  requisitioned. 

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"Das  ist  alles,  Herr  Kapitan." 

"No  other  adult  males?"  asked  the  Herr  Kapitan. 

No.     Nothing  but  these  women. 

Where  had  the  man  Brandes  gone  to? 

He  had  left  on  the  night  of  July  31st. 

For  the  frontier? 

No,  for  the  capital,  it  was  believed.  "But,"  added 
the  young  officer  casting  a  fleeting  glance  at  the  three 
women,  "that  will  be  easy  to  ascertain." 

"Any  one  of  ours  here?"  asked  the  older  man. 

"Yes.     A  certain  Fritz  Miiller,  of  Lohrrach." 

Cherie  quivered  and  tightened  her  grasp  on 
Louise's  hand. 

"Where  is  this  Fritz  Miiller?"  asked  the  captain, 
looking  about  him. 

"Downstairs,"  answered  the  lieutenant.  "He  was 
the  man  who  opened  the  door  for  us." 

"Well,  put  him  in  charge  of  the  billets  and  see  that 
he  provides  for  twenty  men,"  said  the  captain. 

"Now,  as  for  us "  he  took  the  paper  from  the 

other's  hand.  He  turned  it  round  and  looked  at  the 
plan  of  the  house  roughly  drawn  on  the  back  of  the 
sheet.  "Let  me  see  .  .  .  three  rooms  on  this  floor 
.  .  .  four  on  the  next  .  .  .  Glotz?"  to  the  other  and 
youngest  officer  standing  silent  and  erect  before  him. 
"Come  with  me,  Glotz.  And  bring  an  orderly  with 
you."  Then  he  glanced  at  Louise  and  Cherie.  "Von 
Wedel" — the  light-eyed  officer  stood  at  attention — 

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"you  stay  here."  The  captain  turned  on  his  heel  and 
marched  up  the  stairs,  followed  by  the  second  lieuten- 
ant whom  he  had  called  Glotz  and  two  of  the  soldiers. 
The  other  four  stood  in  the  hall  drawn  up  in  a  row, 
stiff  and  motionless  as  automatons. 

Von  Wedel  shut  the  door  in  their  faces;  then  he 
turned  his  gaze  on  the  three  women  left  in  his  charge. 
He  moved  slowly,  deliberately  towards  them  and  they 
backed  away  from  him,  still  holding  each  other's 
hands  and  looking  up  at  him  with  starry,  startled 
eyes.  He  was  very  tall  and  broad,  and  towered  above 
them.  He  gazed  at  them  a  long  time,  his  very  light 
eyes  roving  from  Louise  to  Cherie,  from  Cherie  to  Mi- 
reille  and  back  to  Cherie  again. 

"Well,  turtle-doves,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  laughed, 
"did  you  expect  us?"  The  three  pairs  of  startled  eyes 
still  looked  up  at  him.  "Is  it  really  in  our  honour 
that  you  put  on  all  this  finery?" 

He  moved  a  step  nearer,  and  again  all  three  drew 
back.  "Well,  why  don't  you  answer?" 

Louise  stepped  a  little  in  front  of  the  other  two 
as  if  to  shield  them;  then  she  spoke  in  low  and  quav- 
ering tones — 

"Monsieur  ...  I  hope  .  .  .  that  you  and  your 
friends  .  .  .  will  be  good  enough  to  leave  this  house 
very  soon.  .  .  .  We  are  alone  here " 

"Permit  us  then  to  keep  you  company,"  said  Von 
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Wedel,  and  added,  in  a  tone  of  amiable  interrogation, 
"Your  husband  is  not  here?" 

"No,"  said  Louise,  and  at  the  thought  of  Claude 
her  underlip  trembled;  she  looked  like  a  child  who 
is  about  to  cry. 

"Too  bad,"  said  Von  Wedel,  putting  one  foot  in 
its  muddy  boot  on  a  chair  and  leaning  forward  with 
his  elbow  resting  on  his  upraised  knee.  "Too  bad. 
Well;  we  must  await  his  return." 

"But,"  stammered  Louise,  "he  will  not  return 
tonight." 

"Won't  he?"  His  insolent  light  eyes  that  had  been 
fixed  on  Cherie  during  this  conversation  now  wan- 
dered with  effrontery  over  the  charming  trepidant 
figure  of  Louise.  "Why,  what  an  ungallant  husband 
to  be  sure!  And  may  I  ask  where  he  has  gone  to?" 
He  tossed  the  question  at  her  carelessly  while  he  drew 
a  gold  coroneted  cigarette-case  from  his  pocket  and 
took  from  it  the  solitary  cigarette  it  contained. 
"Your  man  told  me  he  had  been  ordered  to  Namur." 

"No — to  Mons,"  said  Louise. 

"Ah  yes,  Mons.  Interesting  town" — he  tapped  one 
end  of  his  cigarette  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  "fine 
old  Cathedral  of  St.  Waudru  .  .  .  four  railway  lines 
.  .  .  yes.  Did  he  go  alone?" 

Mireille  pinched  her  mother's  arm. 

"Don't  say,"  she  whispered. 
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The  officer  heard  it  and  laughed.  He  took  hold  of 
the  child's  arm  and  drew  her  gently  away  from  her 
mother's  side.  "Na!  sieh  dock  einmal!"  he  said. 
"Are  we  not  sly?  Are  we  not  knowing?  Are  we  not 
diplomatic?  Eh?"  Holding  her  by  her  small  arm 
he  backed  her  away  across  the  room,  then  giving  her 
a  little  push  he  left  her  and  turned  his  attention  to 
the  other  two  again.  Louise  had  turned  deathly  pale, 
but  Mireille,  unharmed  and  undaunted,  signalled  to 
her  from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  signifying  de- 
fiance by  shrugging  her  shoulders  and  sticking  her 
tongue  out  at  the  spruce,  straight  back  of  the  enemy. 

He  now  stared  at  Cherie  again,  and  under  his  in- 
sistent insolent  gaze  she  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf. 

"Why  do  you  tremble?"  he  asked.  "Are  you 
afraid  of  me?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  the  girl,  drooping  her  head. 

He  laughed.  "Why?  I'm  not  a  wild  beast,  am  I? 
Do  I  look  like  a  wild  beast?"  And  he  moved  a  step 
nearer. 

Louise  stepped  in  front  of  Cherie.  "My  sister-in- 
law  is  very  young,"  she  said,  "and  is  not  used  to  the 
attention  of  strangers." 

"My  good  woman,"  replied  Von  Wedel  with  easy 
insolence,  "go  and  find  some  cigarettes  for  me." 
And  as  Louise  stared  at  him  with  an  air  of  dazed 
stupefaction  he  spoke  a  little  louder.  "Cigarettes,  I 
said.  Surely  in  your  husband's  study  you  will  find 

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some.  Preferably  Turkish.  Quick,  my  good  soul. 
Eins,  zwei,  drei — go." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Louise  turned  and  left 
the  room;  Mireille  ran  after  her.  Cherie  darted  for- 
ward to  follow  them,  but  Von  Wedel  took  one  long 
stride  and  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "Halt,  halt!"  he 
said,  laughing.  "You  stay  here,  my  little  turtle-dove, 
and  talk  to  me." 

The  girl  flushed  and  paled  and  trembled.  "What 
a  shy  dove!"  he  said,  bending  over  her.  "What  is 
your  name?" 

"Cherie,"  sfee  murmured  almost  inaudibly. 

"What?  'Cheri'?"  he  laughed.  "Did  you  say 
that  to  me?  The  same  to  you,  Herzchen!"  He  sat 
down  on  a  corner  of  the  table  quite  close  to  her. 
"Now  tell  me  what  you  are  afraid  of.  And  whom  you 
are  afraid  of.  ...  Is  it  of  Captain  Fischer?  Or  of 
me?  Or  of  the  soldiers?" 

"Of  everybody,"  stammered  Cherie. 

"Why,  we  are  such  good  people,"  he  said,  blowing 
the  cigarette-smoke  in  a  long  whiff  before  him,  then 
throwing  the  cigarette  on  the  carpet  and  stamping  it 
out  with  his  foot.  "We  would  not  hurt  a  cat — nor  a 
dog,"  he  added,  catching  sight  of  Amour,  who  came 
hopping  down  the  stairs  limping  and  yelping,  "let 
alone  such  an  adorable  little  angel  as  you." 

The  dog  came  whining  piteously  and  crouched  at 
Cherie's  feet;  she  bent  down  and  lifted  him  up  in  her 

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arms.  He  was  evidently  hurt.  Vori  Wedel  said 
"Good  dog!"  and  attempted  to  pat  him,  but  Amour 
gave  a  long,  low  growl  and  the  officer  quickly  with- 
drew his  hand. 

Louise  reappeared  bringing  boxes  of  cigars  and 
cigarettes,  which  she  placed  on  the  table.  Mireille, 
who  followed  her,  caught  sight  of  Amour  in  Cherie's 
arms  and  heard  him  whine. 

"What  have  you  done  to  him?"  she  said,  turning 
fiercely  on  Von  Wedel. 

He  laughed.  "Well,  well,  what  a  little  vixen!" 
he  said.  Then  he  added,  "You  can  take  the  dog  away. 
I  don't  like  dogs."  Cherie  moved  at  once  towards  the 
staircase,  but  he  stopped  her  again.  "No,  no;  give 
the  dog  to  the  vixen.  You  stay  here." 

Cherie  obeyed,  shrinking  away  from  him  to 
Louise's  side,  while  Mireille  ran  upstairs  with  Amour 
and  took  him  to  Cherie's  room.  She  kissed  him  on 
his  rough  black  head  and  patted  his  poor  paws  and 
put  him  down  on  a  cushion  in  a  corner.  Then  she 
ran  down  again  to  see  what  was  going  on.  Amour 
left  alone  whined  and  howled  in  hideous  long-drawn 
tones  of  indignation  and  suffering.  When  a  few  min- 
utes later  Captain  Fischer,  followed  by  Lieutenant 
Glotz  and  the  two  soldiers  on  his  round  of  in- 
spection, came  downstairs,  he  stopped  on  the  land- 
ing. 

"What  is  that  noise?  Who  is  crying?"  he  asked. 
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"The  dog,  sir,"  said  Glotz,  "whom  you  kicked 
downstairs  before." 

"Hideous  sound!"  said  Captain  Fischer;  "stop  it." 

And  one  of  the  soldiers  went  in  and  stopped  it. 

Captain  Fischer  went  downstairs,  followed  by 
Glotz.  When  they  entered  the  room  Von  Wedel 
turned  away  from  Cherie  and  stood  at  attention. 

Outside  the  boom  of  the  cannon  had  ceased,  but 
there  were  loud  bursts  of  firing  in  the  distance,  sud- 
den volleys  which  ceased  as  abruptly  as  they  began. 
The  three  officers  seemed  to  pay  no  heed  to  these 
sounds;  they  stood  speaking  together,  the  captain  is- 
suing brief  orders,  Von  Wedel  asking  a  question  or 
two,  and  Glotz  saying  "/a,  Herr  Kapitdn — ja,  Herr 
Leutnant"  at  brief  intervals,  like  a  mechanical  toy. 
Glotz  was  round-faced  and  solemn.  He  never  once 
looked  at  Louise,  Cherie,  or  Mireille,  who  stood  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  watching  the  men  with  anxious 
eyes. 

"What  are  they  saying?"  asked  Louise  in  an  under- 
tone. 

Cherie  listened.  So  far  as  she  could  understand 
they  were  making  arrangements  as  to  where  they 
should  sleep. 

"Eight  men  are  to  stay  here,"  she  translated  in  a 
whisper,  "four  in  the  attics  and  four  downstairs. 
They  themselves  are  going  somewhere  else — wait! 
They  are  talking  of  the  Cheval  Blanc — wait  .  .  .  wait 

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.  .  .  they  are  saying" — and  her  eyes  dilated — "that 
they  can't  go  there  because  the  inn  is  burning  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  Von  Wedel  gave  a  loud  laugh  and 
Fischer  smiled.  Only  Glotz's  chubby  countenance 
remained  solemn,  like  the  face  of  an  anxious  baby. 

"What  are  they  saying  now?"  asked  Louise. 

Mireille  whispered,  "They  are  talking  about  the 
Pfarrer — that  means  the  priest." 

"About  Monsieur  le  Cure?  What  are  they  saying 
about  him?" 

At  this  point  Von  Wedel  laughed  again.  "Der  alte 
Esel!  .  .  .  Seine  eigene  Schuld  .  .  ." 

"What  is  that?  what  is  that?"  asked  Louise. 

"The  old  donkey  ...  his  own  fault,"  translated 
Mireille. 

"And  now  what?"  The  captain  was  bending  down 
and  looking  at  his  boots. 

Cherie  interpreted.  "He  says  he  will  be  glad  to 
get  the  mud  and  blood  off  his  feet  .  .  ." 

"Mud  and  blood?"  echoed  Louise  in  a  horrified 
whisper.  "Surely  not." 

Mireille  nodded.  "Koth  und  Blut — that  is  what  he 
said." 

A  wave  of  sickness  came  over  Louise;  she  felt  the 
ground  heave  under  her. 

Now  Von  Wedel  was  helping  the  captain  to  take  off 
his  tunic,  drawing  the  left  sleeve  down  with  great 
precaution. 

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"He  says  he  is  wounded,"  whispered  Mireille. 

"But  he  says  it  is  nothing;  that  his  arm  is  only 
grazed,"  supplemented  Cherie. 

The  coat  was  off  and  Captain  Fischer  was  carefully 
turning  up  his  shirt-sleeve.  Yes;  the  forearm  was 
grazed  and  bleeding. 

The  captain  examined  it  very  carefully,  and  so  did 
Von  Wedel,  bending  over  it  and  shaking  his  head 
with  an  air  of  great  concern.  The  captain  looked 
across  at  Louise  and  beckoned  to  her  with  his  finger. 

"Come  here,  Gnddige,  please;"  and  as  she  ap- 
proached him  he  said,  "Your  husband  is  a  doctor,  is 
he  not?  Then  you  will  have  some  antiseptic  in 
the  house.  Lysoform?  Sublimate?  Have  you? 
Louise  nodded  assent.  "Bring  me  some,"  he  said. 
"And  a  little  boiled  water  if  you  have  it." 

Louise  turned  without  a  word  and  left  the  room. 

"She  is  very  stupid,"  said  Von  Wedel  looking  after 
her. 

"She  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  captain. 

Louise  passed  the  soldiers  who  stood  in  the  hall 
talking  together  in  low  voices.  She  went  down  the 
stairs  feeling  dizzy  and  bewildered.  Would  these 
men  stay  in  the  house  all  night?  Would  they  sleep 
and  eat  here?  Would  they  order  her  about,  and  ogle 
Cherie,  and  bully  little  Mireille?  How  long  would 
they  stay,  she  wondered.  A  week?  a  month?  .  .  . 
She  entered  her  husband's  surgery  and  mrned  on  the 

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light.  The  sight  of  his  room,  of  his  chair,  of  his 
book,  open  on  the  desk  as  he  had  left  it,  seemed  to 
wring  her  heart  in  a  vice  of  pain.  "Claude! 
Claude!"  she  sobbed.  "Come  back!  Come  back 
and  take  care  of  us!" 

But  Claude  was  far  away. 

She  found  the  little  blue  phial  of  pastilles  of  cor- 
rosive sublimate;  she  poured  some  distilled  water  into 
a  small  basin  and  found  cotton  and  a  packet  of  lint 
for  a  bandage.  Then  she  went  upstairs  again,  past 
the  soldiers  in  grey,  and  entered  the  sitting-room.  It 
was  empty. 

Where  had  they  all  gone  to?  Where  had  they 
taken  Cherie  and  Mireille?  She  stumbled  blindly  up 
the  short  flight  of  stairs  leading  to  the  drawing-room. 
There  she  heard  their  voices,  and  went  in. 

Captain  Fischer  was  reclining  on  the  sofa,  still  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  boots  off.  Von  Wedel  and 
Glotz  were  at  the  flower-adorned  supper-table  pre- 
pared for  Cherie's  birthday  party,  and  were  eating 
sandwiches  in  large  mouthfuls.  Their  grey  helmets 
were  on  the  piano;  their  belts  on  a  chair.  Cherie 
stood  cowering  in  a  corner  near  the  door. 

"Where  is  Mireille?"  cried  Louise;  and  Cherie  re- 
plied, "She  is  all  right.  He" — indicating  the  captain 
on  the  sofa — "has  sent  her  to  fetch  him  some  slip- 
pers." Her  lips  quivered.  "I  wanted  to  go  with  her 
but  they  would  not  let  me." 

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"I  feel  as  if  we  were  in  a  dream,"  murmured 
Louise. 

"Ah,"  cried  the  man  on  the  sofa,  catching  sight  of 
Louise,  "here  is  my  good  Samaritan."  He  crossed 
the  room  in  his  stockinged  feet  and  took  the  basin  out 
of  her  hands.  He  looked  round  a  moment  uncertain 
where  to  put  it;  then  he  drew  up  a  satin  chair  and 
placed  the  basin  of  water  on  it. 

"Gut"  he  said.  "And  what  have  we  here?"  He 
took  the  little  bottle  from  her  hand.  "  'Perchlor.  of 
mercury,  1.0  gramme.'  That  is  right."  He  shook 
one  of  the  little  pink  tablets  out  on  his  palm 
and  dropped  it  in  the  water.  "Now,  charming  lady, 
will  you  be  a  sister  of  mercy  to  a  poor  wounded 
man?"  He  bared  his  arm  and  sat  down  on  the 
sofa  again,  making  room  for  her  beside  him; 
but  she  stood  in  front  of  him,  and  dipping  some 
pieces  of  cotton  in  the  water  she  bathed  the  injured 
arm. 

The  door  opened  and  Mireille  came  in  with  a  pair 
of  her  father's  slippers  in  her  hand.  When  she  saw 
her  mother  stooping  over  the  man's  arm  her  small 
face  flushed  scarlet.  She  flung  the  slippers  down 
and,  running  to  the  corner  where  Cherie  was  standing, 
she  hid  her  face  on  Cherie's  arm. 

"Ei,  ei,  the  vixen!"  laughed  Von  Wedel,  taking  an- 
other sandwich.  "Now  we  want  something  to  drink. 
Not  these  syrups,"  he  added,  pushing  the  grenadine 

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and   orangeade   aside.     "Let   us  have   some   cham- 
pagne.    Eh,  Glotz?     What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"And  some  brandy,"  said  Fischer.  "This  scratch 
is  deucedly  painful." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Cherie,  tak- 
ing a  step  towards  the  door,  said,  "I  will  fetch  some 
brandy." 

"I'll  come  too,"  said  Mireille. 

"No,  no,  no,  no,"  cried  Von  Wedel,  catching  hold 
of  them  each  by  one  arm.  "You  two  want  to  run 
away.  I  know  your  tricks!  No.  The  vixen  stays 
here;  and  the  angel" — bending  to  gaze  into  Cherie's 
face — "comes  with  me  and  shows  me  where  the 
brandy  is  kept." 

"She  shan't!  she  shan't!"  screamed  Mireille,  cling- 
ing to  Cherie's  arm. 

"Donner  und  Blitz!"  exclaimed  Von  Wedel,  "what 
a  little  demon.  You  just  catch  hold  of  her,  Glotz, 
and  keep  her  quiet." 

Glotz,  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  table  eating 
silently,  rose  and  dried  his  mouth  on  one  of  the  be- 
flowered  tissue-paper  serviettes.  "I  know  where  the 
cellar  is,"  said  he,  "I  saw  it  on  my  round  with  the 
Herr  Kapitan.  If  the  Herr  Kapitan  permits,  I  will 
fetch  the  brandy  myself."  And  he  left  the  room 
quickly,  paying  no  heed  to  Von  Wedel's  murmured 
remark  that  he  was  a  confounded  interfering  head  of 
a  sheep. 

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Louise  had  burst  into  tears  when  Von  Wedel  had 
told  Glotz  to  hold  Mireille,  and  although  the  captain 
patted  her  hand  and  told  her  not  to  cry  she  went  on 
weeping  bitterly  while  she  bandaged  his  arm. 

Von  Wedel  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  then 
turned  to  Cherie.  "What  relation  are  you  to  that 
weeping  Niobe?  I  forget." 

"Sister-in-law,"  murmured  Cherie  inaudibly. 

"What?  Speak  louder.  I  can't  hear,"  said  Von 
Wedel,  seating  himself  on  a  corner  of  the  table  and 
lighting  one  of  Dr.  Brandes's  cigars. 

"Sister-in-law,"  repeated  Cherie  faintly. 

"Sister-in-law?  Good."  He  puffed  at  the  cigar. 
"And  I'll  be  your  brother-in-law,  shall  I?  Ah,  here 
is  the  wine!"  he  exclaimed  as  the  door  was  thrown 
open. 

But  it  was  not  the  wine.  It  was  another  officer, 
dressed  like  the  others  in  a  grey  uniform  bereft  of  all 
insignia;  he  was  very  red  and  covered  with  dust  and 
mud.  He  saluted  the  captain  and  nodded  to  the  lieu- 
tenant, loosened  his  belt  and  flung  his  grey  helmet  on 
the  piano  where  the  others  lay. 

"Ah,  Feldmann,"  cried  Captain  Fischer.  "What 
have  you  done?" 

"My  duty,"  said  the  new-comer  in  a  curious  hoarse 
voice. 

"Der  Ffarrer?"  .  .  .  questioned  Von  Wedel. 

The  man  nodded  and  made  a  grimace.  "And 
-71- 


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that  idiot  of  a  scout-boy  too.  It  was  he  who  fired  at 
you,"  he  said  turning  to  Fischer. 

"It  was  not,"  said  the  captain.  "It  was  an  old 
man,  from  a  window.  Near  the  church." 

"Oh  well,  I  didn't  see  any  old  man,"  said  Captain 
Feldmann.  "And  these  civilians  must  be  taught  their 
lesson.  .  .  .  What  have  we  here?"  he  added,  sur- 
veying the  table.  "I  am  famished."  And  he  took 
two  or  three  sandwiches,  placed  them  one  on  the  other 
and  ate  them.  "Beastly  hole,  this,"  he  remarked, 
with  his  mouth  full.  "We  needn't  have  come  here  at 
all." 

"Oh  yes,  we  need,"  declared  Fischer  very  sternly. 

"Well,  we  won't  discuss  that,"  said  Feldmann. 
"And  anyhow  we  are  going  on  in  the  morning.  I 
should  like  something  to  drink." 

Cherie  had  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  She 
had  grasped  the  one  thing  only — they  were  going  on 
in  the  morning!  At  any  cost  she  must  tell  Louise  that 
wonderful  news.  And  she  did  so  rapidly,  in  low 
tones,  in  Flemish. 

Louise,  who  had  finished  bandaging  the  officer's 
wounded  arm,  burst  into  tears  again;  this  time  they 
were  tears  of  joy. 

"What  are  these  women?"  inquired  Feldmann, 
glancing  around  with  his  mouth  full.  "They  look 
like  ballet-dancers." 

"That  one,"  said  Von  Wedel,  with  a  coarse  laugh, 
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pointing  at  Louise,  "is  the  weeping  Niobe;  and  that" 
indicating  Mireille — "is  the  demon  child.  And  this" 
— taking  Cherie's  wrist  and  drawing  her  towards  him 
— "is  my  sister-in-law  and  an  angel." 

"And  this  is  Veuve  Clicquot  '85,"  said  Glotz  en- 
tering with  some  bottles  in  his  hand  and  stepping  as  if 
casually  between  Cherie  and  her  tormentor. 

The  men  turned  all  their  attention  to  the  wines,  and 
sent  Glotz  to  the  cellar  three  or  four  times  to  fetch 
some  more. 

They  wanted  Martel;  they  wanted  Kirsch;  they 
wanted  Pernod.  Then  they  wanted  more  champagne. 
Then  they  wanted  more  sandwiches,  which  Louise 
went  to  make.  Then  they  wanted  coffee,  which 
Feldmann  insisted  upon  making  himself  on  a  spirit- 
lamp.  They  set  fire  to  the  tablecloth  and  to  the  tissue- 
paper  serviettes,  which  they  threw  down  and  stamped 
out  on  the  carpet. 

Von  Wedel  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  sang  "Traum 
durch  die  Dammerung,"  and  Feldmann  wailed  a 
chorus.  Then  Feldmann  recited  a  poem.  He  was 
very  tipsy  and  had  to  put  one  arm  around  Glotz's  neck 
and  lean  heavily  on  Glotz's  shoulder  in  order  to  be 
able  to  stand  up  and  gesticulate. 

"Liebe  Mutter,  der  Mann  mit  dem  Kocks  ist  da!" 
"Schweig  still,  mein  Junge,  das  weiss  ich  ja. 
"Hab'ich  kein  Geld,  hast  du  kein  Geld, 
"Wer  hat  denn  den  Mann  mit  dem  Kocks  bestellt?" 
-73- 


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Great  laughter  and  applause  from  Captain  Fischer 
and  Von  Wedel  greeted  this ;  only  Glotz  remained  im- 
passive; with  Feldmann's  arm  around  his  neck,  his 
chubby  countenance  unmoved,  his  expression  vacant. 

For  some  time  they  paid  no  heed  to  the  three 
women  clustered  together  in  the  furthest  corner  of 
the  room,  except  to  stretch  out  a  detaining  hand  when- 
ever they  tried  to  move  towards  the  door. 

"No,"  declared  Von  Wedel,  leering  at  them 
through  his  light,  vague  eyes.  "No.  You  don't 
leave  this  room.  Not  all  three  together.  Only  one 
at  a  time;  then  we're  sure  she'll  come  back." 

So  they  clung  together  with  pale  bewildered  faces, 
whispering  to  each  other  every  now  and  then  the  com- 
forting words,  "They  will  go  away  in  the  morning." 

But  the  morning  was  not  yet. 

When  Captain  Fischer  suggested  that  it  was  time  to 
go  to  bed,  the  others  called  him  an  old  screech-owl; 
whereupon  Captain  Fischer  explained  to  them  at  great 
length  that  military  discipline  did  not  permit  them  to 
call  him  a  screech-owl.  And  he  called  Louise  to 
witness  that  he  had  been  called  a  screech-owl. 

But  now  Feldmann  was  singing  "Gaudeamus 
igitur,"  so  the  captain  joined  in  too. 

"Come  along,"  said  Von  Wedel,  lurching  towards 
Cherie  with  two  glasses  in  his  hand;  "come,  turtle- 
dove, Brudershaft  trinken!"  He  forced  one  of  the 
glasses  into  her  hand.  "You  must  drink  the  pledge  of 

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brotherhood  with  us.  Like  this" — and  he  made  her 
stand  face  to  face  with  him,  pushing  his  left  arm 
through  hers  and  raising  his  glass  in  his  right  hand. 

Cherie  shrank  back,  seeking  refuge  behind  Louise. 
But  he  dragged  her  forward  and  caught  her  by  the 
arm  again. 

"Obedience!"  he  roared,  scowling  at  her.  "Now 
sing;  'Lebe,  Hebe,  trinke,  schwarme9 — and  when  I  get 
to  the  words  'froh  mil  mir,9  we  clink  our  glasses  to- 
gether." 

"Please  not!  please  not!"  implored  Cherie. 

"Froh  mil  mir" — repeated  he,  glaring  at  her 
through  his  heavy  lids.  And  he  sang: 

Lebe,  Hebe,  trinke  schwarme 
Und  erfreue  dich  mit  mir. 
Harme  dich  wenn  ich  mich  ha'rme 
Und  sei  weider 

froh 
mit 
mir! 

At  the  last  three  words  he  clinked  his  glass  against 
Cherie's.  "Drink!"  he  commanded  in  a  terrible 
voice.  "If  you  do  not  drink,  it  is  an  insult  which 
must  be  punished." 

With  a  sob  Cherie  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips. 

Louise  was  wringing  her  hands.  "The  brute!  the 
brute!"  she  cried,  while  Mireille  holding  her  mother's 
skirts  stared  wide-eyed  at  the  scene. 

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Captain  Fischer  looked  across  at  Louise.  "My 
Samaritan,"  ...  he  mumbled.  "My  sister  of 
mercy  .  .  ."  He  rose  and  approached  her  with  a 
stupefied  smile. 

Mireille  rushed  at  him  like  a  little  fury.  "Go 
away,"  she  screamed,  "go  away!" 

The  Herr  Kapitan  took  her  not  unkindly  by 
the  shoulders.  "Little  girls  should  be  in  bed," 
he  said  thickly.  "My  little  girls  are  in  bed  long 
ago." 

Louise  clasped  her  hands.  "I  beg  you,  sir,  have 
pity  on  us;  let  us  go  away.  .  .  .  The  house  is  yours, 
but  let  us  go  away." 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go?"  he  asked  dully. 

"To  our  rooms,"  said  Louise. 

"You  have  no  rooms;  they  are  ours,"  he  said,  and 
bending  forward  he  widened  his  eyes  at  her  sig- 
nificantly. 

Louise  looked  about  her  like  a  trapped  animal. 
She  saw  Von  Wedel  and  Feldmann  who  had  Cherie 
between  them  and  were  forcing  her  to  drink  out  of 
their  glasses;  she  saw  Glotz  seated  on  the  piano-stool 
looking  on  with  fat,  impassive  face ;  she  saw  the  man 
before  her  bending  forward  and  leering  suggestively, 
so  close  that  she  could  feel  his  hot,  acrid  breath  on  her 
face.  The  enemy!  The  man  with  mud  and  blood 
on  his  feet  ...  he  was  putting  out  his  hand  and 

touching  her 

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She  fell  on  her  knees  and  dragged  Mireille  down 
beside  her!  she  lifted  up  her  hands  and  raised  her 
weeping  face  to  him.  "Your  children  .  .  .  you 
have  children  at  home  ...  your  little  girls  are  in 
bed  and  asleep  .  .  .  they  are  safe  .  .  .  safe,  locked 
in  their  house.  ...  As  God  may  guard  them  for 
you,  oh  protect  us!  spare  us!  Take  care  of  us! 
.  .  .Be  kind — be  kind!"  She  dropped  forward  with 
her  head  on  his  feet — on  Claude's  slippers — and  little 
Mireille  with  quick  tears  rolling  down  her  face  looked 
up  at  him  and  touched  his  sleeve  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

He  looked  down  and  frowned.  His  mouth  worked. 
Yes.  He  had  three  yellow-headed  little  girls  in  Stutt- 
gart. It  was  good  that  they  were  in  Stuttgart  and  not 
in  Belgium.  But  they  were  little  German  girls,  while 
these  were  enemies.  These  were  belligerents.  Civil- 
ians if  you  will,  but  still  belligerents.  .  .  . 

He  looked  down  at  the  woman's  bowed  head  and 
fragile  heaving  shoulders,  and  he  looked  at  the  white, 
frightened  child-face  lifted  to  his.  "Belligerents" 
...  he  growled,  and  cleared  his  throat  and  frowned. 
Then  his  chin  quivered.  "Get  away,"  he  said  thickly. 
"Get  away,  both  of  you.  Quick.  Hide  in  the  cellar 
— no — not  in  the  cellar,  in  the  stable — in  the  garden 
— anywhere.  Don't  go  in  the  streets.  The  streets 
are  full  of  drunken  soldiers.  Go." 

Louise  kissed  his  feet,  kissed  Claude's  slippers,  and 
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wept,  while  Mireille  smiled  up  at  him  with  the  smile 
of  a  seraph,  and  thanked  and  thanked  him,  not  know- 
ing what  she  thanked  him  for. 

"But — what  of  Cherie?"  gasped  Louise,  looking 
round  at  the  frightened  wild-rose  figure  in  its  white 
dress,  trembling  and  weeping  between  the  two  ribald 
men. 

"You  shall  take  her  with  you,"  said  Fischer,  and  he 
went  resolutely  across  the  room  and  took  Cherie  by 
the  arm. 

"What?  What?  You  old  reprobate,"  roared 
Feldmann,  digging  him  in  the  ribs,  with  peals  of 
coarse  laughter.  "You  have  two  of  them!  What 
more  do  you  want,  you  hedgehog,  you?  Leave  this 
one  alone." 

"You  leave  her  alone,  too.  I  order  her  to  go 
away."  Fischer  frowned  and  cleared  his  throat  and 
tried  to  draw  Cherie  from  Feldmann's  and  Von 
WedeFs  grasp. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Von  Wedel,  going 
close  up  to  Fischer  and  looking  him  up  and  down  with 
provocative  and  menacing  air. 

"I  mean  that  you  leave  her  alone,"  puffed  the  cap- 
tain. "Those  are  my  orders,  Lieutenant — and  if  they 
are  not  obeyed  you  shall  answer  for  it." 

"You  old  woman!  you  old  head  of  a  sheep," 
shouted  Von  Wedel;  "answer  for  it,  shall  I?  You 
are  drunk;  and  I'm  drunk;  and  I  don't  care  a  snap 

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about  your  orders."  And  dragging  Cherie's  arm 
from  Fischer's  grasp  he  pushed  him  back  and  glow- 
ered at  him. 

"Your  orders  .  .  .  '  stuttered  the  intoxicated 
Feldmann,  placing  his  hand  on  Fischer's  shoulder  to 
steady  himself,  "your  orders  .  .  .  direct  contradic- 
tion with  other  orders  .  .  .  higher  orders  .  .  ." 
He  wagged  his  head  at  Fischer.  "The  German  seal 
must  be  set  upon  the  enemy's  country.  ...  Go  away. 
Don't  be  a  screeching  owl." 

"And  don't  be  a  head  of  a  sheep,"  added  Von 
Wedel.  "Vae  victis!  If  it  isn't  you,  it'll  be  some- 
body else.  It'll  be  old  Glotz — look  at  him  .  .  .  sit- 
ting there,  all  agog,  arrectis  auribus!  Or  it  will  be 
our  drunken  men  downstairs.  Just  listen  to 
them!  .  .  ." 

The  drunken  men  downstairs  were  roaring  "Die 
Wacht  am  Rhein."  Von  Wedel's  argument  seemed  to 
carry  conviction. 

"Vae  victis!"  sighed  Fischer,  swallowing  another 
glass  of  brandy  and  looking  across  the  room  at  the 
trembling  Louise.  "If  it  isn't  I  ...  then  Glotz 
...  or  somebody  else  .  .  .  drunken  soldiers  .  .  ." 

He  went  unsteadily  towards  Louise,  who  stood 
clutching  at  the  locked  door.  "Woe  to  the  van- 
quished, my  poor  woman  .  .  .  seal  of  Germany 
.  .  .  higher  orders.  .  .  .  Why  should  I  be  a  head  of 
a  sheep?  .  .  ." 

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BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  VI 

IT  is  pleasant  to  sit  in  a  quiet  English  garden  on  a 
mild  September  afternoon,  sipping  tea  and  talking 
about  the  war  and  weather,  while  venturesome  spar- 
rows hop  on  the  velvety  lawn  and  a  light  breeze 
dances  over  the  flower-beds  stealing  the  breath  of  the 
mignonette  to  carry  back  at  nightfall  to  the  sea. 

Thus  mused  the  gentle  sisters,  Miss  Jane  and  Julia 
Corry,  as  they  gazed  round  with  serene  and  satisfied 
blue  eyes  on  the  lawn,  the  sparrows,  the  silver  tea- 
set,  the  buttered  toast,  and  their  best  friend,  Miss 
Lorena  Marshall,  who  had  dropped  in  to  have  tea  with 
them  and  whose  gentle  brown  eyes  now  smiled  back 
into  theirs  with  the  self-same  serenity  and  satisfac- 
tion. All  three  had  youthful  faces  under  their  soft 
white  hair;  all  three  had  tender  hearts  in  their  some- 
what rigid  breasts;  all  three  had  walked  slender  and 
tall  through  an  unblemished  life  of  undeviating  con- 
ventionality. They  were  sublimely  guileless,  di- 
vinely charitable  and  inflexibly  austere. 

"It  is  pleasant  indeed,"  repeated  Julia  in  her 
rather  querulous  treble  voice.  Julia  had  been  deli- 

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cate  in  her  teens  and  still  retained  some  of  the  capric- 
ious ways  of  the  petted  child.  She  was  the  youngest, 
too — scarcely  forty-five — and  was  considered  very 
modern  by  her  sister  and  her  friend.  "Of  course  the 
Continent  is  all  very  well  in  its  way,"  she  went  on. 
"Switzerland  in  summer,  and  Monte  Carlo  in  win- 
ter  " 

"Oh,  Julia,"  interrupted  Miss  Jane  quickly,  "why 
do  you  talk  about  Monte  Carlo?  We  only  stayed 
there  forty-five  minutes." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  wish  we  could  have  stayed  there 
longer,"  laughed  the  naughty  Julia.  "The  sea  was  a 
dream,  and  the  women's  clothes  were  revelations. 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  England  is,  after  all " 

We  all  know  what  England  is,  after  all.  Still,  it 
is  always  good  to  say  it  and  to  hear  it  said.  Thus,  in 
the  enumeration  of  England's  advantages  and  priv- 
ileges a  restful  hour  passed,  until  the  neat  maid,  Bar- 
ratt,  came  to  announce  the  arrival  of  other  visitors. 
Mrs.  Mulholland  and  her  daughter  Kitty  had  driven 
round  from  Widford  and  came  rustling  across  the 
lawn  in  beflowered  hats  and  lace  veils.  Fresh  tea 
was  made  for  them  and  they  brought  a  new  note  into 
the  conversation. 

"Are  you  not  thinking  of  taking  a  refugee?"  asked 
Mrs.  Mulholland.  "The  Davidsons  have  got  one." 

"The  Davidsons  have  got  one?"  exclaimed  Miss 
Marshall. 

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"The  Davidsons  have  got  one?"  echoed  Miss  Jane 
and  Miss  Julia  Corry. 

"Yes,  indeed,'*  said  Mrs.  Mulholland  somewhat 
acidly.  "And  I  am  sure  if  they  can  have  one  in  their 
small  house,  you  can ;  and  we  can." 

"Refugees  are  all  the  rage  just  now,"  remarked 
Kitty.  "Everybody  who  is  anybody  has  them." 

Yes,  but  the  Davidsons  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Marshall. 
"Surely  they  cannot  afford  it." 

"They  have  dismissed  their  maid,"  explained  Mrs. 
Mulholland,  "and  this  poor  Belgian  woman  has  to  do 
all  their  housework." 

"Yes;  and  Molly  Davidson  says  that  she  is  really  a 
countess,"  added  Kitty,  "and  that  she  makes  the  beds 
very  badly." 

"Poor  soul!"  said  Miss  Jane. 

"I  certainly  think,"  continued  Mrs.  Mulholland, 
"that  the  Davidsons  of  all  people  should  not  be  put- 
ting on  side  with  a  foreign  countess  to  make  their  beds 
for  them,  while  others  who  have  good  houses  and 
decent  incomes  simply  look  on.  In  fact,"  she  added, 
"I  have  already  written  to  the  Committee  in  Kings- 
way  offering  hospitality  to  a  family  of  two  or  three." 

"That  is  very  generous  of  you,"  said  Miss  Jane; 
and  Miss  Julia  shyly  patted  the  complacent  white- 
gloved  hands  reposing  in  Mrs.  Mulholland's  lap. 

"We  had  not  thought  of  it  ourselves,  so  far,"  said 
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Miss  Jane.     "But  if  it  is  our  duty  to  help  these  un- 
fortunates, we  shall  certainly  do  so." 

"Of  course  you  will.  You  are  such  angels,"  ex- 
claimed the  impulsive  Kitty,  throwing  a  muscular  arm 
around  Miss  Jane's  prim  shoulders  and  kissing  her 
cheek.  And  Miss  Jane  liked  it. 

"How  does  one  set  about  it?"  asked  Miss  Marshall; 
"I  might  find  room  for  one,  too.  In  fact  I  should 
rather  like  it.  The  evenings  are  so  lonely  and  I  used 
to  love  to  speak  French." 

Mrs.  Mulholland,  to  whom  she  had  turned,  did 
not  answer  at  once.  Then  she  replied  drily:  "You 
can  write  to  the  Refugee  Committee  or  the  Belgian 
Consulate.  The  Davidsons  got  theirs  from  the 
Woman's  Suffrage  League." 

Then  there  was  a  brief  pause. 

"But  I  hear  that  the  committee  is  frightfully  par- 
ticular," she  went  on.  "They  don't  send  them  just 
to  any  one  who  asks.  One  must  give  all  sorts  of  ref- 
erences. In  fact,"  she  added,  with  a  chilly  little 
laugh,  "it  is  almost  as  if  one  were  asking  for  a  situa- 
tion oneself.  They  want  to  know  all  about  you." 

There  was  another  brief  silence,  and  then  Mrs. 
Mulholland  and  Kitty  took  their  leave. 

To  Miss  Julia,  who  accompanied  them  to  the  gate, 
Mrs.  Mulholland  remarked,  "The  idea!  Miss  Marsh- 
all wanting  a  refugee!  With  her  past!" 

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"What  past?"  inquired  Miss  Julia,  wide-eyed  and 
wondering. 

"Oh,"  snapped  Mrs.  Mulholland,  tossing  her  head, 
and  the  white  lace  veil  floating  round  her  sailor-hat 
waved  playfully  in  the  breeze,  "when  people  live 
abroad  so  long,  there  is  always  something  behind  it." 

She  stepped  into  her  motor,  followed  by  the  pink- 
faced,  smiling  Kitty,  and  they  drove  away  to  pay 
some  other  calls. 

Miss  Julia  returned  to  the  lawn  with  a  puckered 
brow  and  a  perturbed  heart.  Neither  she  nor  her  sis- 
ter had  ever  thought  of  Miss  Lorena  Marshall's  past; 
Miss  Marshall  did  not  convey  the  impression  of 
having  a  past — especially  not  a  foreign  past, 
which  was  associated  in  Jessie's  mind  with  ideas 
of  the  Moulin  Rouge  and  Bal  Tabarin.  The  neat 
black  hat  sitting  firmly  on  Miss  Marshall's  smooth 
pepper-and-salt  hair  could  never  be  a  descend- 
ant of  those  naughty  French  petits  bonnets  which 
are  flung  over  the  mills  in  moments  of  youthful  folly. 
Her  sensible  square-toed  boots  firmly  repelled  the  idea 
that  the  feet  they  encased  could  ever  have  danced 
adown  the  flowery  slopes  of  sin. 

"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  Miss  Julia 
to  herself,  and  later  on  to  her  sister.  Miss  Jane 
was  indignant  at  the  suggestion.  "This  village  is  a 
hotbed  of  cats,"  she  said  cryptically;  and  when  the 
vicar  looked  in  after  dinner  to  discuss  arrangements 

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for  a  Church  concert  they  confided  in  him  and  asked 
his  opinion.  Had  he  known  Miss  Lorena  Marshall 
before  she  came  to  Maylands?  Did  he  think  she  had 
a  past — a  Continental  past? 

The  vicar  thought  the  suggestions  ridiculous  and 
uncharitable. 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Jane,  toying  with  her  fa- 
vourite angora  cat's  ear  as  he  lay  purring  comfort- 
ably in  her  lap,  "we  are  narrow-minded  old  maids." 
The  vicar  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  "Yes,  yes,  we 
are.  And  we  like  to  be  sure  that  our  friendships  are 
not  misplaced." 

"We  are  narrow-minded  old  maids,"  echoed  Miss 
Julia.  The  two  Miss  Corrys  always  said  that,  partly 
in  order  to  be  contradicted  and  partly  in  that  curious 
spirit  of  humility  which  in  the  English  heart  so 
closely  borders  on  pride.  For  is  not  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  a  certain  kind  of  inferiority  a  sign  of  un- 
mistakable superiority? 

When  we  say  we  are  a  humdrum  nation,  when  we 
say  we  are  a  dull  and  slow  and  stodgy  nation,  do  we 
not  in  our  heart  of  hearts  think  that  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  if  other  nations  took  an  example  from  our 
very  faults? 

Even  so  when  Miss  Corry  said,  "We  are  narrow- 
minded  old  maids" — she  felt  with  a  little  twinge  of 
remorse  that  the  statement  was  not  altogether  sincere. 
Did  she  really,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  think  it  narrow- 

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minded  to  abhor  vulgarity,  to  shun  coarseness,  to 
shrink  from  all  that  might  be  considered  indecorous  or 
unseemly?  Then  surely  to  be  narrow-minded  was 
better  than  to  be  broad-minded,  and  she  for  one  would 
certainly  refuse  to  change  her  views.  Was  narrow- 
mindedness  nowadays  not  almost  a  synonym  for  pure- 
mindedness? 

And — "old  maids"!  Did  she  really  consider  her- 
self and  her  younger  sister  old  maids?  Had  they — 
just  because  they  had  chosen  to  remain  unmarried — 
any  of  the  crotchety  notions,  the  fantastic,  ineradic- 
able habits  that  old  maids  usually  get  into?  Did 
they  go  about  with  a  parrot  on  their  shoulder  like 
Miss  Davis?  Or  dose  themselves  all  day  with  patent 
medicines,  like  the  Honourable  Harriet  Fyle?  Did 
they  fret  and  fuss  over  their  food,  or  live  in  constant 
terror  of  draughts  and  burglars?  Certainly  not. 
And — come  now — did  they  really  feel  a  day  older 
than  when  they  were  twenty-two  and  twenty-five  re- 
spectively? Or  did  they  look  any  older? — except  for 
their  hair  which,  had  they  chosen,  they  could  easily 
have  touched  up  with  henne  or  Inecto?  Were  they 
not  able  to  do  anything,  to  go  anywhere?  Were  their 
hearts  not  as  young,  and  fresh,  and  ready  for  love  if  it 
happened  to  come  their  way,  as  Kitty  Mulholland's  or 
Dolly  Davidson's?  Did  not  their  elder  brothers — the 
parson  and  the  Judge — always  speak  of  them  still  as 
"the  girls"? 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


No.  Miss  Jane  and  Miss  Julia  Corry  were  not 
quite  sincere  when  they  called  themselves  "narrow- 
minded  old  maids,"  and  accordingly  they  had  qualms 
and  conscience-pricks  when  they  did  so. 

A  week  later  the  two  sisters  returned  Mrs.  Mul- 
holland's  call.  They  fluttered  into  the  large  draw- 
ing room  full  of  the  subdued  murmur  of  many  voices, 
and  were  greeted  absent-mindedly  by  the  busy  hostess 
and  effusively  by  Kitty.  The  Davidsons  were  there, 
quite  unsuitably  attired  (remarked  Miss  Jane  to  Miss 
Julia;  nobody  wore  satin  at  tea),  and  they  were  ex- 
plaining volubly  to  a  group  of  ladies  how  it  hap- 
pened that  their  Belgian  countess-refugee  had  sud- 
denly left  them. 

"First  of  all,  she  was  not  a  countess  at  all,"  ex- 
plained Dolly  Davidson. 

"And  she  was  not  even  a  Belgian,"  Mrs.  Davidson 
added,  in  aggrieved  tones.  "I  cannot  understand  the 
W.S.L.  sending  her  to  us.  Why  she  confessed  before 
she  went  away  that  she  was  a  variety  artist  from  Linz 
and  could  only  speak  German  and  Czech.  We  al- 
ways thought  the  language  she  spoke  was  Flemish.  It 
has  been  a  most  unpleasant  affair." 

Every  one  was  tacitly  delighted.  Mrs.  Davidson 
had  been  giving  herself  such  airs  of  importance  with 
her  countess,  and  now  it  turned  out  that  she  had  been 
playing  Lady  Bountiful  to  an  alien  enemy  from  a  Bo- 

-87- 


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hemian  Cafe  Chantant.  One  would  have  to  be  super- 
human not  to  rejoice.  "How  did  you  get  rid  of  her?" 
asked  one  of  the  ladies,  discreetly  repressing  her 
smiles. 

"A  villainous-looking  man  came  to  fetch  her,  late 
in  the  evening,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Davidson,  blushing. 
"They  made  a  frightful  noise  in  the  hall,  quarrelling 
or  something." 

"Then  they  both  went  upstairs,"  piped  up  Dolly 
Davidson;  and  pointing  to  her  brother,  a  lumpish 
youth  who  at  that  moment  had  his  mouth  full  of  cake. 
"We  sent  Reggy  upstairs  to  tell  them  to  go  away  at 
once.  But  Reggy  only  looked  through  the  keyhole 
and  wouldn't  come  down  again  until  mother  fetched 
him." 

"It  isn't  true,"  mumbled  Reggy. 

"Finally  we  had  to  send  for  the  police,"  said  Mrs. 
Davidson,  with  tears  of  mortification  in  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Mulholland  confessed  that  she  felt  rather 
nervous  about  her  own  refugees  who  were  expected  at 
any  moment.  "I  wish  I  could  countermand  them," 
she  said ;  but  her  sympathizing  friends  all  agreed  that 
having  asked  for  them  she  must  keep  them  when  they 
came. 

They  arrived  the  following  day — an  uninteresting 
woman,  with  two  torpid  boys  and  a  thin  girl  of  fif- 
teen. 

The  boys  ate  a  great  deal,  and  the  girl  was  un- 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


cannily  intelligent.  Since  landing  in  England  they 
had  had  it  drummed  into  them  that  they  were  heroes; 
they  had  been  acclaimed  with  their  compatriots  as  the 
saviours  of  Europe;  they  had  had  speeches  made  to 
them  apprising  them  of  the  fact  that  the  gratitude  of 
all  the  world  could  never  repay  the  debt  that  civiliza- 
tion owed  them.  They  therefore  accepted  as  their 
due  the  attentions  and  kindness  shown  them.  They 
ate  jam  at  all  their  meals  and  asked  for  butter  with 
their  dinner;  they  drank  red  wine  and  put  a  great 
deal  of  sugar  in  it;  they  complained  that  the  coffee 
was  not  good.  They  borrowed  Mrs.  Mulholland's 
seal-skin  coat  and  Kitty's  silk  scarves  when  they  felt 
chilly,  and  they  sat  in  the  drawing-room  writing  letters 
or  looking  at  illustrated  papers  all  day  long.  They 
spoke  French  in  undertones  among  themselves  and 
accepted  everything  that  was  provided  for  them  with- 
out any  undue  display  of  gratitude.  Had  they  not 
saved  Europe?  Would  Mrs.  Mulholland  still  have  a 
seal-skin  coat  to  her  back  but  for  Belgium?  Had  it 
not  been  for  King  Albert,  would  not  the  Uhlans  and 
the  Death's  Head  hussars  be  sprawling  on  the  Mul- 
holland sofa,  eating  the  Mulholland  jam,  criticizing 
the  Mulholland  coffee?  Comment  done! 

And  had  they  not  themselves,  in  order  to  save 
Europe,  given  up  their  home  and  their  business — a 
stuffy  little  restaurant  (Au  Boeuf  a  la  Mode,  Epicerie, 
Commestibles)  down  a  dingy  Brussels  street? 

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The  restaurant  soon  became  a  Grand  Hotel  in  their 
fond  reminiscences.  Le  souvenir,  cet  embellisseur, 
swept  the  sardine-tins,  the  candles,  the  lemons,  and  the 
flies  from  its  windows,  built  up  a  colonnaded  front, 
added  three  or  four  stories  and  filled  them  with  rich 
and  titled  guests. 

"What  was  the  name  of  your  hotel?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Mulholland.  "We  stopped  in  Brussels  once  on  our 
way  to  Spa,  and  I  remember  that  we  stayed  in  a  most 
excellent  hotel — The  Britannique,  or  The  Metropole, 
or  something." 

"Tell  them,"  said  Mme.  Pitou  to  her  daughter 
Toinon  who  acted  as  interpreter, — "tell  them  the  name 
of  our  hotel — in  English." 

"Restaurant  to  the  Fashionable  Beef,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Pitou;  and  Madame  Pitou  sighed  and 
shook  her  head  despondently.  "Hotel,"  she  cor- 
rected, "not  Restaurant.  'Hotel  to  the  Fashionable 
Beef.'  Toinon,"  she  added,  "do  ask  these  people  to 
give  us  potage  aux  poireaux  this  evening,  for  I  cannot 
and  will  not  eat  that  black  broth  of  false  turtle  any 
more." 


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CHAPTER  VII 

THE  craze  for  refugees  cooled  slightly  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood after  that.  The  first  rush  of  enthusiastic 
generosity  abated,  and  when  friends  met  at  knitting- 
parties  and  compared  refugees  there  was  a  certain 
aegritude  on  the  part  of  those  who  had  them,  and  a 
certain  smiling  superiority  on  the  part  of  those  who 
had  not.  They  were  spoken  of  as  if  they  were  a  dis- 
ease, like  measles  or  mumps. 

"I  hear  that  Lady  Osmond  has  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Mellon. 

"Has  she  really?" 

"Yes.     And  poor  Mrs.  Whitaker,  too." 

"Mrs.  Whitaker?     You  don't  say  so." 

"Yes,  indeed.  Mrs.  Whitaker  has  them.  And 
she  feels  it  badly." 

"I  will  run  over  to  see  her,"  said  the  sympathetic 
Mrs.  Mulholland.  "I  am  so  fond  of  the  dear  soul." 

But  that  very  afternoon  Mrs.  Whitaker  herself 
called  on  Mrs.  Mulholland,  at  Park  House. 

"How  do  you  do,  my  poor  dear  Theresa?"  began 
Mrs.  Mulholland,  taking  Mrs.  Whitaker's  hand  and 
pressing  it.  "I  hear " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker  rather  fretfully, 
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drawing  her  hand  away.  "Of  course  you  have  heard 
that  I  have  them."  There  was  a  brief  silence.  "I 
must  confess  I  did  not  expect  quite  such  dreary  ones." 

"Dreary,  are  they?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mulholland. 
"Is  that  all?" 

"It's  bad  enough,"  sighed  Mrs.  Whitaker.  "You 
have  no  idea  what  they  are  like.  Three  creatures  that 
look  as  if  they  had  stepped  out  of  a  nightmare." 

But  Mrs.  Mulholland  overflowed  with  her  own 
grievances.  "Do  they  borrow  your  clothes  and  use 
all  your  letter-paper  and  order  your  dinners?"  asked 
Mrs.  Mulholland,  quivering  with  indignation.  Her 
cook  had  just  given  notice  on  account  of  Madame 
Pitou  going  into  the  kitchen  and  making  herself  a 
timbale  de  riz  aux  champignons. 

"No.  They  don't  do  that.  But  they  sit  about  and 
never  speak  and  look  like  ghosts,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
aker. "When  you  have  time  you  might  drop  in  and 
see  them." 

"I  think  I'll  run  over  with  you  now,"  said  Mrs.  Mul- 
holland; "though  I  don't  for  a  moment  believe  they 
can  be  as  bad  as  mine." 

She  put  on  her  garden-hat  and  her  macintosh,  told 
Kitty  not  to  let  the  Pitous  do  any  cooking  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  went  out  with  Mrs.  Whitaker.  They 
took  the  short  cut  across  the  fields  to  Acacia  Lodge. 

"What  language  do  they  speak?"  asked  Mrs.  Mul- 
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Holland,  as  she  proceeded  with  Mrs.  Whitaker  through 
the  green  garden-gate  and  down  the  drive. 

"They  never  speak  at  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Whitaker; 
"and  I  must  say  I  had  looked  forward  to  a  little 
French  conversation  for  Eva  and  Tom.  That  is  really 
what  I  got  them  for." 

They  walked  on  under  the  chestnut-trees  towards 
the  house.  Eva  in  trim  tennis  attire  and  George  in 
khaki  came  to  meet  them,  running  across  the  lawn. 

"I've  beaten  George  by  six  four,"  cried  Eva,  wav- 
ing her  racket. 

"That's  because  I  let  you,"  said  her  brother,  shaking 
hands  with  Mrs.  Mulholland  and  allowing  his  mother 
to  pat  his  brown  cheek. 

"Handsome  lad,"  murmured  Mrs.  Mulholland,  and 
wished  she  had  brought  Kitty  with  her,  even  though 
the  Pitous  should  profit  by  her  absence  to  prepare 
their  tete-de-veau  en  poulette  on  the  drawing-room  fire. 
"Where  are  .  .  .  they?"  she  added,  dropping  her 
voice  and  looking  round. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Eva.  "I  have  not  seen  them 
all  the  afternoon." 

"I  have,"  said  George.  "They  are  in  the  shrub- 
bery." 

"You  might  call  them,  dear  boy,"  said  his  fond 
mother. 

"Not  I,"  said  George. 


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"I  will,"  said  Eva,  and  ran  down  the  flower- 
bordered  path  swinging  her  racket. 

"Sweet  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Mulholland,  following 
Eva's  slim  silhouette  with  benevolent  eyes,  and  then 
gazing  even  more  benevolently  at  George  Whitaker's 
stalwart  figure.  "She  and  my  Kitty  should  really  see 
something  more  of  each  other." 

Mrs.  Whitaker  threw  a  penetrating  glance  at  her 
friend's  profile.  "Schemer,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self. "Certainly,"  she  said  aloud.  "As  soon  as 
George  goes  to  Aldershot  I  hope  your  dear  daughter 
will  often  come  here." 

"Cat,"  reflected  Mrs.  Mulholland.  And  aloud  she 
said,  "How  delightful  for  both  the  dear  girls!" 

George  had  sauntered  with  his  long  khaki  limbs 
towards  the  shrubbery,  but  Eva  reappeared  alone. 

"They  won't  come,"  she  said. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mulholland. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Mrs.  Whitaker. 

"They  don't  want  to,"  said  Eva.  "The  tall  one 
shook  her  head  and  said,  'Aferci.' ' 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  laughed  George,  "consider- 
ing they  have  been  exhibited  to  half  the  county  within 
the  last  three  days." 

"I'll  fetch  them  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker 
sternly.  Then  she  turned  to  her  son.  "George,  you 
who  are  half  a  Frenchman  after  your  visit  to  Mon- 
treux,  do  tell  me — how  do  I  say  in  French,  'I  desire 

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you  all  three  to  come  and  be  introduced  to  a  very  dear 
friend  of  mine?' ' 

There  was  a  brief  silence;  then  George  translated. 
"Venny"  he  said. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes,"  said  George. 

His  mother  was  about  to  go  when  Mrs.  Mulholland 
suggested :  "Had  we  not  both  of  us  better  take  a  turn 
round  the  garden,  and  casually  saunter  into  the  shrub- 
bery?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker. 

And  so  they  did.  George  followed  them  slowly, 
with  Eva  hanging  on  his  arm.  She  was  very  fond  and 
proud  of  her  soldier  brother. 

They  entered  the  shrubbery  and  saw  seated  upon  a 
bench  three  figures  dressed  in  black,  who  rose  to  their 
feet  at  their  hostess's  approach. 

"Goodness  gracious!  how  uncanny  they  look!" 
whispered  Mrs.  Mulholland,  and  added,  with  a  smile 
of  half -incredulous  pleasure,  "I  believe  they  really 
are  worse  than  mine." 

The  three  black  figures  stood  silent  and  motion- 
less, and  Mrs.  Mulholland  found  herself  gazing  as 
if  fascinated  into  the  depths  of  three  pairs  of 
startled,  almost  hallucinated  eyes,  fixed  gloomily 
upon  her. 

Mrs.  Whitaker  addressed  them  in  English,  speak- 
ing very  loud  with  an  idea  of  making  them  under- 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


stand  her  better.  They  seemed  not  to  hear,  they  cer- 
tainly made  no  attempt  to  answer  her  amiable  plati- 
tudes. 

Mrs.  Mulholland,  moved  to  something  like  pity  by 
their  stricken  appearance,  put  out  her  hand  saying, 
"How  do  you  do?"  and  two  of  them  laid  their  limp 
fingers  in  hers — the  third,  whom  she  now  noticed  was 
a  child  although  she  wore  a  long  black  skirt,  neither 
stirred  nor  removed  her  stony  gaze  from  her  face. 
There  was  an  embarrassing  pause.  Then  Mrs.  Mul- 
holland asked  with  a  bright  society  smile — 

"How  do  you  like  England?" 

No  answer. 

"George,  dear,  ask  them  in  French,"  said  his 
mother. 

George  stepped  forward  blushing  through  his  tan. 
"Urn  ...  er  ..."  he  cleared  his  throat.  "S'i7 
vous  plait  Londres?"  he  inquired  timidly. 

He  addressed  the  tallest,  but  she  gazed  at  him 
vacantly,  not  understanding.  The  little  girl  stood 
next  to  her — the  large  tragic  eyes  in  her  small  pale 
face  still  fixed  on  the  unknown  countenance  of  Mrs. 
Mulholland.  She  conveyed  the  impression  that  she 
had  not  heard  any  one  speak. 

George,  blushing  deeper,  turned  towards  the  third 
ghost  standing  before  him,  coughed  again  and  re- 
peated his  question,  "S'il  vous  plait  Londres?" 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.     The  third  ghost 


THE      OUTRAGE 


smiled.  It  was  a  real  smile,  a  gleaming  smile,  a  smile 
with  dimples.  The  ghost  was  suddenly  transformed 
into  a  girl.  "Merci.  UAngleterre  nous  plait  beau- 
coup"  That  was  in  order  not  to  hurt  the  "half 
Frenchman's"  feelings.  Then  she  added  in  English, 
"London  is  very  nice." 

"Oh,"  snapped  the  astonished  Mrs.  Whitaker,  "you 
speak  English?"  and  her  tone  conveyed  the  impres- 
sion that  something  belonging  exclusively  to  her  had 
been  taken  and  used  without  her  permission. 

"A  little,"  was  the  murmured  reply.  The  smile 
had  quickly  died  away;  the  dimples  had  vanished. 
Under  Mrs.  Whitaker's  scrutiny  the  girl  faded  into  a 
ghost  again.  The  two  ladies  nodded  and  moved 
away.  George  and  Eva,  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
and  embarrassment,  followed  them. 

"What  strange,  underhand  behaviour!"  com- 
mented Mrs.  Whitaker;  "never  to  have  told  me  she  un- 
derstood English  until  today." 

"I  suppose  they  were  trying  to  find  out  all  your 
family  concerns,"  said  Mrs.  Mulholland. 

A  word  that  sounded  like  "Bosh"  proceeded  from 
George,  who  had  turned  his  back  and  was  walking 
into  the  house. 

"I  think  they  were  just  dazed,"  explained  Eva. 
"They  look  almost  as  if  they  were  walking  in  their 
sleep.  I  never  even  noticed  until  today  that  they  were 
all  so  young.  Why,  the  little  one  is  a  mere  kiddy;" 

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she  twisted  round  on  her  heel.  "I  think  I  shall  go 
back  and  talk  to  them,"  she  added. 

"No,"  said  her  mother.     "You  will  stay  here." 

That  evening  when  Mr.  Whitaker  came  back  from 
the  City  his  daughter  had  much  to  tell  him,  and  even 
the  somewhat  supercilious  George  took  an  interest 
and  joined  in  the  conversation. 

"The  ghosts  have  spoken,  papa!"  cried  Eva,  danc- 
ing round  him  in  the  hall.  Then  as  soon  as  he  was  in 
the  drawing-room  she  made  him  sit  down  in  his  arm- 
chair and  kissed  him  on  the  top  of  his  benevolent  bald 
head.  "And — do  you  know? — they  are  really  not 
ghosts  at  all;  are  they,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Whitaker  did  not  look  up  from  her  knitting. 
But  her  husband  spoke. 

"They  are  the  wife,  the  sister,  and  the  daughter  of 
a  doctor,"  he  said.  "At  the  Belgian  Consulate  I  was 
told  they  were  quite  decent  people.  My  dear  The- 
resa," he  added,  looking  at  his  wife,  "I  think  we  ought 
to  have  asked  them  to  take  their  meals  with  us." 

"I  did  so,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker,  with  some  asper- 
ity. "I  did  so,  although  they  do  look  like  scarecrows. 
But  they  say  they  prefer  having  their  meals  by  them- 
selves." 

"Then  you  must  respect  their  wishes,"  said  Mr. 
Whitaker,  opening  a  commercial  review. 

"Just  fancy,  Pops,"  said  Eva,  perching  herself  on 
the  arm  of  her  father's  chair,  "the  youngest  one — the 

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poor  little  creature  with  the  uncanny  eyes — is  deaf 
and  dumb." 

"How  sad!"  said  her  father,  caressing  his  daugh- 
ter's soft  hair. 

"Did  her  mother  tell  you  so?"  asked  Mrs.  Whitaker, 
looking  up  from  the  grey  scarf  she  was  knitting. 

"No,  not  her  mother,"  explained  Eva;  "the  other 
one  told  me.  The  one  with  the  dimples,  who  speaks 
English.  She  is  sweet!"  cried  the  impulsive  Eva, 
and  her  father  patted  her  hair  again  and  smiled. 

"Her  name  is  Sherry,"  remarked  George. 

"Oh,  George,  you  silly,"  exclaimed  Eva.  "You 
mean  Cherie." 

"How  do  you  know  her  name?"  snapped  Mrs. 
Whitaker,  laying  down  her  knitting  in  her  lap  and  fix- 
ing stern  inquisitorial  eyes  upon  her  son. 

"She  told  me,"  said  George,  with  a  nonchalant  air. 

"She  told  you!"  said  his  mother.  "I  never  knew 
you  had  any  conversation  with  those  women." 

"It  wasn't  conversation,"  said  George.  "I  met  her 
in  the  garden  and  I  stopped  her  and  said,  'What  is 
your  name?'  and  she  answered,  'Sherry.'  That's  all." 

"Queer  name,"  said  his  father. 

"My  dear  Anselm,  that  is  really  not  the  point — " 
began  Mrs.  Whitaker,  but  the  dressing-gong  sounded 
and  they  all  promptly  dispersed  to  their  rooms,  so 
Anselm  never  knew  what  the  point  really  was. 

After  dinner  Eva,  as  usual,  went  to  the  piano, 
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opened  it  and  lit  the  candles,  while  her  father  sat  in 
the  dining-room  with  the  folding-doors  thrown  wide 
open,  as  he  declared  he  could  not  enjoy  his  port  or 
his  pipe  without  Eva's  music. 

"What  shall  it  be  tonight,  Paterkins?"  Eva  called 
out  in  her  birdlike  voice.  "Rachmaninoff?" 

"No.  The  thing  you  played  yesterday,"  said  her 
father,  settling  himself  comfortably  in  his  armchair, 
while  the  neat  maid  quietly  cleared  the  table. 

"Why,  that  was  Rachmaninoff,  my  angel-dad," 
laughed  Eva,  and  twisted  the  music-stool  to  suit  her 
height. 

George  came  close  to  her  and  bending  down  said 
something  in  an  undertone. 

"Good  idea,"  said  Eva.     "Ask  the  mater." 

"You  ask  her,"  said  George,  sauntering  into  the  ad- 
joining room,  where  he  sat  down  beside  his  father  and 
lit  a  cigarette. 

Eva  went  to  her  mother,  and  coaxed  her  into  con- 
senting to  what  she  asked.  Then  she  ran  out  of  the 
room  and  reappeared  soon  after,  bringing  with  her  the 
three  figures  in  black.  As  they  hesitated  on  the 
threshold,  she  slipped  her  arm  through  the  arm  of  the 
reluctant  "Sherry"  and  drew  her  forward.  "Do 
come! — Venny!"  she  said,  and  the  three  entered  the 
room. 

They  were  quite  like  ghosts  again,  with  pale  faces 
and  staring  eyes  and  the  rigid  gait  of  sleep-walkers. 

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They  sat  down  silently  in  a  row  near  the  wall,  and 
Eva  went  to  the  piano  and  played.  She  played  the 
Rachmaninoff  "Prelude,"  and  when  she  had  finished 
they  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  She  wandered  off  into 
the  gentle  sadness  of  Godard's  "Barcarole,"  and  the 
three  ghosts  sat  motionless.  Schumann's  "Carnaval" 
did  not  cheer  them,  nor  did  the  "Moonlight  Sonata" 
move  them.  When  Eva  at  last  closed  the  piano  they 
rose,  and  the  two  eldest,  having  silently  bowed  their 
thanks,  they  left  the  room,  conducting  between  them 
the  little  one,  whose  pallor  seemed  more  spectral  and 
whose  silence  seemed  even  deeper  than  theirs. 

"Poor  souls!  poor  souls!"  growled  Mr.  Whitaker, 
clearing  his  throat  and  knitting  his  brows.  "Theresa, 
my  dear,"  to  his  wife,  "see  that  they  lack  for  nothing. 
And  I  hope  the  children  are  always  very  kind  and 
considerate  in  their  behaviour  to  them.  George,"  he 
added,  turning  what  he  believed  to  be  a  beetling  brow 
upon  his  handsome  son,  "I  noticed  that  you  stared  at 
them.  Do  not  do  so  again.  Grief  is  sensitive  and 
prefers  to  remain  unnoticed." 

George  mumbled  that  he  hadn't  stared  and 
marched  out  of  the  room.  Eva  put  her  arms  round 
her  father's  neck  and  pressed  on  his  cheek  the  loud, 
childish  kisses  that  he  loved. 

"May  I  go  and  talk  to  them  a  little?"  she  asked,  in 
a  coaxing  whisper. 

"Of  course  you  may,"  said  her  father,  and  Eva  ran 
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out  quickly,  just  as  her  mother  looked  up  to  say, 
"What  is  it?" 

"I  have  sent  Eva  to  talk  to  those  unhappy  crea- 
tures," said  Mr.  Whitaker.  "We  must  try  and  cheer 
them  a  little.  It  is  nothing  less  than  a  duty.  Poor 
souls!"  he  repeated,  "I  have  never  seen  anything  so 
dismal." 

"I  think  we  fulfil  our  duty  in  providing  them  with 
shelter  and  food,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker. 

"You  think  nothing  of  the  kind,  Theresa,"  said 
Mr.  Whitaker. 

"I  do,"  asserted  his  wife.  "And  as  for  Eva,  she 
is  already  inclined  to  be  exaggeratedly  sentimental  in 
regard  to  these  people.  She  is  constantly  running 
after  them  with  flowers  and  cups  of  tea." 

"Nice  child,"  said  her  father,  with  a  little  tighten- 
ing in  his  throat. 

"She  is  not  a  child,  Anselm.  She  is  nineteen. 
And  I  do  not  wish  her  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
those  women." 

"Theresa?"  said  her  husband,  in  a  high  questioning 
voice.  "Theresa.  Come  here." 

Mrs.  Whitaker  did  not  move.  "Come  here,"  he 
repeated  in  the  threatening  and  terrible  tone  that  he 
sometimes  used  to  the  children  and  to  his  old  re- 
triever Raven — a  tone  which  frightened  neither  child 
nor  beast.  "Come  here." 

Mrs.  Whitaker  approached.  "Sit  down,"  he  said, 
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indicating  a  footstool  in  front  of  him;  and  Mrs.  Whit- 
aker  obeyed.  "Now,  wife,"  he  said,  "are  you  grow- 
ing hard  and  sour  in  your  old  age?  Are  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker.     "I  am." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Whitaker,  "that's  right.  I  knew 
you  weren't."  And  he  laughed,  and  patted  her 
cheek. 

This  was  not  the  answer  Mrs.  Whitaker  was  pre- 
pared for  and  she  had  nothing  ready  to  say.  So  the 
wily  Mr.  Whitaker  went  on,  "I  have  noticed  lately  in 
you  certain  assumed  asperities,  a  certain  simulated 
acrimony.  .  .  .  Now,  Theresa,  tell  me;  what  does 
this  make-believe  bad  temper  mean?" 

Mrs.  Whitaker  felt  that  she  could  weep  with  rage. 
What  is  the  good  of  having  a  bad  temper  when  it  is 
not  believed  in?  Of  what  use  is  it  to  be  sore  and 
sour,  to  feel  bitter  and  hard,  in  the  face  of  smiling 
incredulity? 

"With  other  people,  my  dear,"  continued  Mr.  Whit- 
aker, "you  may  pretend  that  you  are  disagreeable  and 
irascible,  but  not  with  me.  I  know  better." 

This  simple  strategy  had  proved  perfectly  success- 
ful for  twenty  years  and  it  answered  today,  as  it 
always  did. 

"I  am  disagreeable,  I  am  irascible,  I  am  bitter, 
and  hard,  and  cross,"  said  Mrs.  Whitaker,  whereupon 
Mr.  Whitaker  closed  his  eyes,  smiled  and  shook  his 
head. 

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"Don't  keep  on  shaking  your  head  like  a  Chinese 
toy,"  she  added.  "Anselm,  you  really  are  the  stupid- 
est man  I  have  ever  seen."  And  then  she  laughed. 
"It  is  dreadful,"  she  added,  putting  aside  the  hand  he 
had  laid  on  her  shoulder,  "not  to  be  believed  when  one 
is  cross,  not  to  be  feared  when  one  is  angry.  It  makes 
one  feel  so  helpless." 

"You  may  be  helpless,"  he  said ;  "womanly  women 
mostly  are.  But  you  are  never  cross  and  you  are 
never  angry.  So  don't  pretend  to  be." 

Now  Mrs.  Whitaker  was  tall  and  large  and  square ; 
she  was  strong-minded  and  strong-featured;  she  was 
what  you  would  call  a  "capable  woman" — and  none 
but  her  own  inmost  soul  knew  the  melting  joy  that 
overcame  her  at  being  told  that  she  was  helpless.  She 
raised  her  hand  to  the  hand  that  lay  on  her  shoulder 
again,  and  patted  it.  She  bent  her  head  sideways 
and  laid  her  cheek  upon  it. 

"Now,  what's  the  trouble?"  said  her  husband. 

"The  trouble  ...  I  can  hardly  express  it,"  she 
spoke  hesitantly,  "either  to  myself  or  to  you.  An- 
selm!" she  turned  her  eyes  to  him  suddenly,  the 
eyes  full  of  blueness  and  temper  and  courage  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  in  Dublin  long  ago.  "I  hate  those 
three  miserable  women,"  she  said.  "I  hate  them." 

"What!"  cried  her  husband,  drawing  his  hand 
away  from  hers. 

"I  fear  them,  and  I  hate  them!"  she  repeated. 
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"What  have  they  done?" 

"They  have  done  nothing,"  said  his  wife,  with 
drooping  head  and  downcast  eyes.  "But  I  cannot 
help  it.  I  hate  and  fear  them  .  .  .  for  the  children's 
sake." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Mr.  Whitaker  was  sitting 
very  straight.  The  thin  soft  hair  still  crowning  his 
brow  was  ruffled. 

"The  mystery  that  surrounds  them  frightens  me," 
said  Mrs.  Whitaker.  "I  don't  know  where  they  come 
from,  what  they  have  seen,  what  they  have  lived 
through.  I  should  like  to  be  kind  to  them,  I  should 
like  to  encourage  the  children  to  cheer  them  and  speak 
to  them.  But  there  is  something  .  .  .  something  in 
their  eyes  that  repels  me,  something  that  makes  me 
want  to  draw  Eva  away  from  them.  I  cannot  express 
it.  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Then  her  husband 
spoke.  "A  woman's  instinct  in  these  things  is  right, 
I  suppose.  But  to  me  it  sounds  uncharitable  and 
cruel." 

Mrs.  Whitaker  rose  to  her  feet,  her  face  flushing 
painfully.  "Are  we  called  upon  to  sacrifice  our 
daughter's  purity  of  mind,  her  ignorance  of  evil,  to 
these  strangers?  Is  it  our  duty  to  encourage  an  inter- 
course which  will  tear  the  veil  of  innocence  from 
her  eyes?" 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  Mr.  Whitaker  gravely. 
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"How  can  our  daughter  have  pity  on  human  suffer- 
ing while  she  does  not  know  its  meaning?  True  char- 
ity, Theresa,  cannot  be  blind;  compassion  must  know 
the  ills  it  tries  to  heal.  My  dear,  we  are  face  to  face 
with  one  of  the  problems — one  of  the  minor  problems 
perhaps,  but  still  a  very  real  problem — which  this 
ghastly  war  has  raised.  Think  for  a  moment,  The- 
resa ;  how  can  our  girls,  who  are  called  upon  to  nurse 
the  wounded  in  body,  and  comfort  the  stricken  in  soul, 
live  in  the  midst  of  puerile  ignorance  any  longer? 
Painful  though  it  may  be,  the  veil  you  speak  of,  the 
white  veil  that  hides  from  a  maiden's  eyes  the  sins  and 
sorrows  of  life,  must  be  rent  asunder." 

"It  is  cruel!  it  is  cruel!"  cried  the  mother. 

"Yes.  War  is  cruel.  And  life  is  cruel.  But  do 
not  let  us — you  and  I — add  to  the  cruelty  of  the 
world.  If  our  daughter  must  learn  to  know  evil  in 
order  to  be  merciful,  then  let  innocence  die  in  her 
young  heart,  in  order  that  pity  which  is  nobler,  may 
be  born."  There  was  a  long  silence. 

Then  Mrs.  Whitaker  raised  her  husband's  hand  to 
her  lips  and  kissed  it. 


-106- 


CHAPTER   VIII 

EVA  had  gone  upstairs  to  the  schoolroom,  now  trans- 
formed into  a  sitting-room  for  the  refugees,  and  had 
knocked  softly  at  the  door. 

No  one  answered  and  she  stood  for  a  moment 
irresolute.  Then  the  sound  of  a  sobbing  voice  fell 
on  her  ear,  "Mireille!  Mireille!"  .  .  .  The  despair 
of  it  wrung  her  heart.  With  sudden  resolve  she 
turned  the  handle  and  went  in. 

Under  the  green-shaded  electric  light  a  picture 
almost  biblical  in  its  poetic  tragedy  presented  itself 
to  her  eyes.  The  youngest  of  the  refugees,  the  child, 
with  her  long  hair  loosened — and  it  fell  like  golden 
water  on  either  side  of  her  white  face — stood  motion- 
less as  a  statue  under  the  lamp-shine,  gazing  straight 
before  her,  straight,  indeed,  into  the  eyes  of  Eva  as 
she  halted  spellbound  on  the  threshold.  Kneeling  at 
the  child's  feet,  with  her  back  to  the  door,  was  the 
eldest  one  of  the  three,  her  long  black  garments 
spreading  round  her,  her  arms  stretched  upwards  in  a 
despairing  embrace  of  that  motionless  childish  figure; 
her  head  was  thrown  forward  on  her  arm  and  it  was 
her  sobbing  voice  that  Eva  had  heard.  Standing  be- 

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side  her  holding  a  little  golden  crucifix  in  her  clasped 
and  upraised  hands,  stood  the  other  girl — the  girl  who 
had  smiled — and  she  was  praying:  "Sainte  Vierge, 
aidez-nous!  Mere  de  Dieu,  faites  le  miracle!"  Un- 
moved, unseeing,  unhearing  the  little  girl  they  were 
praying  for  stood  like  a  statue,  her  wide,  unseeing 
eyes  fixed  before  her  as  in  a  trance. 

With  sorrow  and  pity  throbbing  in  her  heart  Eva 
slipped  back  into  the  passage  again,  closing  the  door 
softly  behind  her.  After  a  moment's  uncertainty 
she  knocked  at  the  door  once  more,  this  time  more 
loudly.  A  voice  answered  timidly,  "Entrez" 

They  were  all  three  standing  now,  but  the  tears  still 
fell  down  the  cheeks  of  the  eldest  one,  who  had 
quickly  risen  from  her  knees. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Eva  timidly.  "I  thought 
I  should  like  to  come  and  talk  with  you  a  little." 

The  second  one,  who  understood  English,  came  for- 
ward at  once  with  a  wan  and  grateful  smile.  "Thank 
you.  Please  come,"  she  said.  And  Eva  entered  and 
closed  the  door. 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Eva  put  out  her  hand 
shyly  and  stiffly  to  the  eldest  one;  "Don't  cry,"  she 
said. 

Surely  no  other  words  so  effectively  open  the  flood- 
gates of  tears!  Even  though  they  were  spoken  in  a 
tongue  foreign  to  her,  the  stricken  woman  under- 
stood them  and  her  tears  flowed  anew. 

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"Loulou,  Loulou,  ne  pleure  pas!"  cried  the  younger 
girl,  and  turning  to  Eva  she  explained:  "She  cries 
because  of  her  child" — she  pointed  to  the  little  spectre 
— "who  will  not  speak  to  her." 

"Is  she  really  dumb?"  asked  Eva,  in  awed  tones, 
gazing  at  the  seraphic  little  face,  dazed  and  colourless 
as  a  washed-out  fresco  of  Frate  Angelico. 

"We  do  not  know.  She  has  not  spoken  for  more 
than  a  month."  The  girl's  gentle  voice  broke  in  a 
sob.  "She  does  not  seem  to  know  us  or  to  hear  us." 
She  went  over  to  the  child  and  caressed  her  cheek. 
"Mireille,  petite  Mireille!  dis  bonsoir  a  la  jolie 
dame!" 

But  Mireille  was  silent,  staring  with  her  vacant 
eyes  at  what  no  one  could  see. 

Eva  stepped  forward,  trembling  a  little,  and  took 
the  child's  limp  hand  in  hers.  "Mireille,"  she  said. 
The  blue  eyes  were  turned  full  upon  her  for  an  instant, 
then  they  wavered  and  wandered  away.  "What  has 
happened  to  her?  What  made  her  like  this?"  asked 
Eva,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Fear,"  replied  the  girl,  her  lips  tightening.  And 
she  said  no  more. 

"Fear  of  what?"  insisted  Eva,  with  the  unconscious 
cruelty  of  youth  and  kindness. 

"The  Germans  came  to  our  house,"  faltered  the 
girl;  "they  .  .  .  they  frightened  her."  Again  her 
quivering  lips  closed  tightly;  a  wave  of  crimson 

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flooded  her  delicate  face.  Then  the  colour  faded 
quickly,  leaving  behind  it  a  waxen  pallor  and  a  deep 
shadow  round  her  eyes. 

"Were  they  unkind  to  her?  Did  they  hurt  her?" 
gasped  Eva,  and  for  the  first  time,  as  she  gazed  at 
that  motionless  child  figure,  her  startled  soul  seemed  to 
realize  the  meaning  of  war. 

"No;  they  did  not  hurt  her.  They  did  nothing  to 
her.  But  she  was  frightened"  .  .  .  her  arm  went 
round  the  child's  drooping  shoulders,  "and  because 
she  cried  they  .  .  .  they  bound  her  ...  to  an  iron 
railing  .  .  ." 

"They  bound  her  to  an  iron  railing!  .  .  .  How 
cruel,  how  wicked!"  cried  Eva. 

"Yes,  they  were  cruel,"  said  the  girl,  and  a  ter- 
rified look  came  into  her  eyes.  She  moved  back  a  lit- 
tle, nearer  to  the  other  woman,  the  tall  black  figure 
that  stood  silent,  looking  down  at  the  glowing  embers 
of  the  fire.  She  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken  since 
Eva  had  entered  the  room. 

Eva  continued  her  questioning. 

"And  were  you  frightened,  too?" 

"Yes.     I  was  frightened." 

"What  did  you  do?     Did  you  run  away?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  remember.  I  don't  re- 
member anything." 

Such  terror  and  anguish  was  there  in  the  lovely 
girlish  face,  that  Eva  dared  to  ask  no  more. 

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"Forgive  me,"  she  stammered ;  "I  ought  not  to  have 
made  you  speak  about  it.  Forgive  me — Mademoi- 
selle." She  placed  her  hand  timidly  on  the  girl's 
arm.  "Or  may  I  call  you  'Cherie'?" 


-Ill- 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  mild  September  days  swung  past;  the  peaceful 
English  atmosphere  and  the  wholesome  English  food, 
added  to  the  unobtrusive  English  kindness — which 
consists  mainly  in  leaving  people  alone  and  pretend- 
ing not  to  notice  their  existence — wrought  gentle 
miracles  on  the  three  stricken  creatures. 

Not  that  Mireille  found  speech  again,  but  Louise 
watched  day  by  day  with  beating  heart  the  return  of 
the  tender  wildrose  colour  to  her  child's  thin  cheeks, 
and  saw  the  strange  fixed  expression  of  terror  grad- 
ually fade  out  of  her  eyes. 

Mireille  never  wept  and  never  smiled;  she  seemed 
to  wander  in  the  shadow  of  life,  mute,  quiet,  and  at 
peace. 

But  life  and  joy  came  throbbing  back  to  Cherie's 
young  heart,  in  fluttering  smiles  and  little  trills  of 
laughter,  in  soft  flushes  and  quick,  light-running  steps. 
Louise,  seated  by  Mireille  at  the  schoolroom  window, 
would  let  her  work  sink  on  her  lap  to  watch  the  girlish 
slender  figure  of  her  sister-in-law  darting  to  and  fro 
on  the  tennis-lawn;  she  would  listen  amazed  to  the 
sweet  voice  that  had  so  quickly  attuned  itself  to  Eng- 

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lish  words  and  English  laughter.  And  her  soul  was 
filled  with  wonder.  How — how  had  Cherie  so 
quickly  forgotten?  Had  she  no  thought  for  brother 
and  lover  fighting  on  the  blood-drenched  plains  of 
Ypres?  How  could  she  play  and  talk  and  laugh 
while  there  was  no  news  from  Claude  or  from  Flor- 
ian?  While  they  might  even  now  be  lying  dead — 
dead  with  upturned  faces,  under  the  distant  Belgian 
sky!  And  how,  ah!  how  could  she  have  forgotten 
what  befell,  on  that  night  of  horror  but  a  few  short 
weeks  ago? 

As  if  some  subtle  heart-throb  warned  her,  Cherie 
would  turn  suddenly  and  gaze  up  at  the  two  pale  faces 
framed  in  the  window  beneath  the  red  and  gold  leaves 
of  the  autumnal  creeper.  Then  she  would  fling  down 
her  racket  and,  leaving  Eva  and  Kitty  Mulholland  and 
George — who  were  often  her  partners  in  the  game — 
without  a  word,  she  would  run  into  the  house  and  up 
to  the  schoolroom  and  fling  herself  at  Louise's  feet 
in  a  storm  of  tears. 

"Mireille!  .  .  .  Florian!  .  .  .  Claude!"  The 
beloved  names  were  sobbed  out  in  accents  of  despair, 
and  Louise  must  needs  comfort  her  as  best  she  could, 
smoothing  the  tumbled  locks,  kissing  the  flushed,  wet 
face,  and  finally  herself  leading  her  out  into  the 
garden  again.  Mireille  went  lightly  and  silently  be- 
side them,  like  a  pale  seraph  walking  in  her  sleep. 

It  was  not  only  to  console  Cherie  that  Louise  smiled 
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in  those  first  days  of  exile.     Hope,  like  a  shy  bird, 
had  entered  into  her  heart. 

There  was  better  news  from  the  Continent;  all 
Europe  had  taken  up  arms  and  was  fighting  for  them 
and  with  them.  There  had  been  the  glorious  tidings 
of  the  battle  of  the  Marne.  Then  one  day  Florian 
had  sent  a  message. 

It  appeared  on  the  front  page  of  The  Times,  and 
Mr.  Whitaker  himself  went  up  with  it  to  the  school- 
room, followed  by  Mrs.  Whitaker,  Eva  and  George. 
Florian  said  he  was  safe,  and  was  in  touch  with 
Claude.  He  gave  an  address  for  them  to  write  to  if 
this  message  caught  their  eye. 

Louise  and  Cherie  embraced  each  other  with  tears 
of  joy.  Claude  and  Florian  were  safe!  Safe! 
And  would  one  day  come  over  to  England  to  fetch 
them.  Perhaps  in  a  month  or  two  the  war  would  be 
over. 

Louise  dreamt  every  night  of  Claude's  return.  She 
pictured  his  arrival,  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  in  the 
garden,  his  voice  in  the  hall — then  his  strong  arms 
around  her.  .  .  .  Ah!  but  then  he  would  see  Mi reille! 
He  would  ask  what  had  happened — he  would  have  to 
be  told  .  .  . 

No!  No!  Mireille  must  be  healed  before  he  ar- 
rives. He  must  never  know — Never!  She  need  not 
tell  him.  She  must  not  tell  him. 

Or  must  she? 

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It  became  an  obsession.  Must  she  tell  him? 
Why,  why  must  she  tell  him?  Why  break  his  heart? 
No;  he  need  never  know — never!  Mireille  must  be 
healed  before  he  arrives.  Mireille  must  be  taught  to 
speak  and  smile  again.  Mireille  must  find  again  the 
dear  shrill  voice  of  her  childhood,  the  sweet  piercing 
treble  laughter  with  which  to  welcome  his  return. 
The  laughter  and  the  voice  of  Mireille!  Where  were 
they? 

Had  the  Holy  Saints  got  them  in  their  keeping? 

Louise  fell  on  her  knees  a  hundred  times  a  day  and 
prayed  to  God  and  to  the  Virgin  Mary  and  to  the 
Saints  to  give  back  to  Mireille  her  voice.  Per- 
haps Saint  Agnes  would  help  her?  Or  little  Saint 
Philomena,  who  both  were  martyred  in  their 
thirteenth  year.  Or  if  not,  surely  there  was  Saint 
Anthony  of  Padau  who  would  restore  Mireille's  voice 
to  her.  He  was  the  Saint  who  found  and  gave  back 
what  one  had  lost.  And  to  Saint  Anthony  she  prayed, 
in  hope  and  faith  for  many  days;  in  anguish  and 
despair  for  many  weeks.  .  .  .  Then,  suddenly,  she 
prayed  no  more. 

From  one  day  to  another  her  gentle  face  changed. 
The  soft  lines  seemed  suddenly  to  be  carved  out  of 
stone.  When  she  sat  alone  face  to  face  with  Mireille 
their  eyes  would  gaze  into  each  other  with  the  same 
fixity  and  stupefaction;  but  while  the  gaze  of  the 
child  was  clear  and  vacant,  the  eyes  of  the  mother 

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were  wild  and  wide  with  some  dark  horror  and  de- 
spair. Fear — fear — the  mad  affrightment  of  a  lost 
spirit  haunted  her,  and  with  the  dawn  of  each  new  day 
seemed  to  take  deeper  root  in  her  being,  seemed  to 
rise  from  ever  profounder  depths  of  woe  and  horror. 

"Loulou!  dearest!  What  is  the  matter?  Are  you 
ill?"  Cherie  asked  her  one  morning,  noting  her  lag- 
ging footsteps  and  her  deathly  pallor. 

"No,  darling,  no,"  said  Louise.  "But — you?" 
She  asked  the  question  suddenly,  turning  and  fixing 
her  burning  eyes  on  the  girl's  face. 

"I?  Why  do  you  ask  me?"  smiled  Cherie,  sur- 
prised. 

"Are  you  well?"  insisted  Louise.  "The  English 
boy  told  me" — Louise  seemed  hardly  able  to  speak— 
"that  the  other  day — you  fainted." 

"Oh!"  Cherie  laughed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"How  silly  of  him  to  tell  you.  It  was  nothing.  They 
were  teaching  me  to  play  hockey  .  .  .  and  suddenly 
I  was  giddy  and  I  stumbled  and  fell.  I  am  often 
giddy  and  sick.  It  is  nothing.  I  believe  I  am  a  little 
anaemic.  But  I  really  am  quite  well.  Really, 
really!"  she  repeated  laughing  and  embracing  Lou- 
lou. "I  am  always  as  hungry  as  a  wolf!' 

And  she  danced  away  to  find  "Monsieur  George" 
and  scold  him  for  telling  tales. 

Louise's  eyes  followed  her  with  a  deep  and  ques- 
tioning gaze. 

-116- 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  Curate  of  Lindfield  had  arranged  a  Benefit  Con- 
cert for  the  refugees.  It  was  to  be  held  in  the  school- 
house  on  the  last  Saturday  in  September,  and  the  pro- 
ceeds were  to  be  divided  among  the  Belgian  refugees 
of  the  neighbourhood,  to  whom  also  complimentary 
tickets  were  sent.  The  two  front  rows  of  seats  were 
reserved  exclusively  for  them. 

For  weeks  past  the  excitement  among  the  amateur 
performers  who  had  offered  their  services  had  been 
intense.  Miss  Snelgrove,  the  Whitakers'  nearest 
neighbour,  who  was  going  to  sing  "Pur  dicesti"  and 
"Little  Grey  Home  in  the  West,"  had  been  alternately 
gargling  and  practising  all  day,  until  it  was  often  hard 
to  make  out  which  of  the  two  she  was  actually  doing. 

Finally  her  throat  became  so  sore  that  Mrs.  Mellon, 
of  "The  Grange,"  had  to  be  asked  to  sing  in  her  stead. 

Mrs.  Mellon,  stout  and  good-tempered,  said  she 
would  do  anything  for  charity;  so  the  "Habanera" 
from  "Carmen"  was  put  on  the  program  instead  of 
"Pur  dicesti"  and  the  "Little  Grey  Home";  and  Mrs. 
Mellon  heroically  untrimmed  her  best  hat,  so  as  to 
have  the  red  velvet  rose  which  adorned  it  to  wear  in 
her  hair. 

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"But  surely,"  said  Miss  Snelgrove,  who  had  mag- 
nanimously gone  to  see  her  on  the  eve  of  the  concert 
to  ask  how  her  throat  felt — she  herself  spoke  in  a 
hoarse  whisper — "surely  you  are  not  going  to  sing 
Carmen  in  costume,  are  you?" 

"No,  not  exactly  in  costume,"  said  Mrs.  Mellon, 
trying  the  rose  first  over  the  left  temple  and  then 
under  her  right  ear,  "but  I  think  the  dress  ought  to  be 
suited  to  the  song;  don't  you?  I  have  had  my  black 
lace  shortened,  and  have  added  a  touch  of  colour 
.  .  .  here  and  there.  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Mellon  indicated 
her  ample  bosom  and  her  portly  hips.  "A  scarlet 
sash,  and  the  red  rose  in  my  hair  will  be  quite  ef- 
fective. I  had  thought  of  having  a  cigarette  in  my 
hand — as  Carmen,  you  know — but  Mr.  Mellon  and  the 
vicar  thought  better  not. 

"L 'amour  est  enfant  de  Bohem-ah, 

"See  tew  ne  maim  pah,  je  t'aim-ah"  .  .  . 

she  warbled  in  her  rich  padded  contralto,  and  the 
envious  Miss  Snelgrove  felt  her  own  small,  scratchy 
soprano  contract  painfully  in  her  overworked  throat. 
George  Whitaker  was  to  perform  a  few  conjuring 
tricks  which  he  had  learned  from  a  book  called  Magic 
in  the  Home.  He  had  performed  them  innumerable 
times  in  the  family  circle,  with  great  adroitness  and 
success;  but  when  the  evening  of  the  concert  came 

-118- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


round  he  vowed  he  would  not  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing. 

"I  know  I  shall  make  an  ass  of  myself,"  he  said  re- 
peatedly to  every  one,  and  nobody  had  time  to  con- 
tradict him.  About  an  hour  before  they  were  to 
start  he  stood  with  Cherie  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  the 
others. 

Cherie  was  wearing  a  white  muslin  gown  of  Eva's, 
which  George  knew  very  well,  and  which  made  him 
feel  almost  brotherly  towards  her.  Mrs.  Whitaker 
and  Eva  were  still  upstairs  dressing,  and  Loulou  had 
gone  to  put  Mireille  to  bed,  telling  the  maid  in  anx- 
ious maternal  English  to  "wake  on  her,  is  it  not?" 

"I  know  I  shall  make  an  ass  of  myself,"  repeated 
George.  "My  hands  are  quite  clammy." 

"What  a  pity!"  sighed  Cherie  sympathetically, 
shaking  her  comely  head. 

"Most  awfully  clammy.  Just  feel  them,"  said 
George,  stretching  out  to  her  a  large  brown  hand. 

"I  can  see  that  they  are,"  said  Cherie. 

"Oh,  but  just  feel,"  said  George. 

Cherie  cautiously  touched  his  palm  with  the  tip  of 
one  finger.  "Most  clammy  indeed,"  she  said;  and 
George  laughed;  and  Cherie  laughed  too. 

"Besides,"  said  the  conjuror,  "I  am  nervous.  I 
positively  am.  Heart  thumping  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing."  ' 

-119- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


"Dear,  dear,"  said  Cherie. 

George  sighed  deeply  and  repeated,  "I  know  I  shall 
make  a  hash  of  things." 

He  did. 

His  was  the  first  number  of  the  program,  and 
when  he  appeared  he  was  greeted  with  prolonged  and 
enthusiastic  applause.  Things  bulged  in  his  back  and 
things  dropped  out  of  his  sleeves;  objects  he  should 
not  have  had  popped  out  of  his  pocket  and  rolled 
under  the  piano;  flags  appeared  and  unfurled  them- 
selves long  before  they  should  have  done  so  and  in 
parts  of  his  person  where  flags  are  not  usually  seen. 

His  mother  sat  bathed  in  a  cold  sweat  as  he  fumbled 
and  bungled,  and  Eva  kept  her  eyes  tightly  shut  and 
prayed  that  it  might  finish  soon.  But  it  did  not.  The 
flags,  which  should  have  been  the  crowning  patriotic 
finale  of  his  performance,  having  appeared  in  the 
beginning  of  it,  there  seemed  to  the  agonized  George 
to  be  nothing  to  finish  with  and  no  way  of  finishing. 
He  went  on  and  on,  stammering  and  swallowing  with 
a  dry  palate,  clutching  a  hat,  a  handkerchief,  and  an 
egg,  and  wondering  what  on  earth  he  was  going  to  do 
with  them. 

Cherie  had  watched  him  solemnly  enough  in  the  be- 
ginning, but  when  he  caught  her  eye  and  dropped  the 
egg  something  seemed  to  leap  into  her  throat  and 
strangle  her.  When  a  tennis-ball  dropped  from  his 
sleeve  and  he  had  to  crawl  after  it  under  the  grand 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


piano  while  the  Union  Jack  hidden  up  his  back  slowly 
unfurled  itself  behind  him,  she  felt  that  she  must 
laugh  or  die. 

She  laughed;  she  laughed,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands,  her  forehead  and  neck  crimson,  her  slim 
shoulders  heaving,  while  Loulou  nudged  her  fiercely 
and  whispered,  "Ne  ris  pas!" 

George,  returning  from  under  the  piano  caught 
sight  of  that  small,  shaking  figure  in  the  front  row; 
his  hands  grew  clammier,  his  throat  drier. 

At  last  the  curate,  to  end  the  painful  performance, 
started  applauding  in  the  wings,  and  the  abashed 
conjurer  turned  and  walked  quickly  away — with  a 
rabbit  peering  out  of  his  coat-tail  pocket. 

In  the  wings  he  met  the  curate,  who  tried  to  com- 
fort him.  "Don't  you  mind.  It  wasn't  so  bad!"  he 
said  genially,  clapping  George  on  the  back.  "That 
silly  girl  laughing  in  the  front  row  put  you  out." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  declared  George.  "It  was 
that  beastly  egg.  Besides,"  he  added,  "everybody 
ought  to  have  laughed.  I  wanted  them  to  laugh.  It 
was  intended  to  be  a  funny  number." 

"Oh,  was  it?"  said  the  curate,  somewhat  sourly. 
"You  should  have  announced  that  on  the  program. 
Nobody  would  have  thought  it  to  look  at  you." 

But  the  next  number  was  already  beginning.  Mrs. 
Mellon  was  on  the  platform  clasping  a  fan  in  her 
gloved  hands.  The  gloves  were  tight  and  white  and 

-121- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


short,  and  so  were  her  sleeves,  and  between  the  two  a 
portion  of  red  and  powerful  elbow  was  disclosed. 
The  rose  was  in  her  hair,  the  sash  round  her  waist,  her 
eyes  flashed  with  impassioned  Spanish  vivacity.  At 
the  piano  the  timid,  short-sighted  Mr.  Mellon  took  his 
seat,  after  a  good  deal  of  adjustment  of  the  creaky 
piano-stool. 

No  sooner  had  he  nervously  started  the  first  notes 
of  the  introductory  bars  than  Mrs.  Mellon's  loud  con- 
tralto burst  from  her,  and  with  hand  on  hip,  she  in- 
formed the  audience  in  French  that  love  was  a  re- 
bellious bird. 

Mr.  Mellon,  who  still  had  three  bars  of  introduc- 
tion to  play,  floundered  on  awhile,  then  turned  a  be- 
wildered face  to  his  wife  and  stopped  playing. 
There  followed  a  brief  low-voiced  discussion  as  to  who 
was  wrong — she  asking  him  angrily  why  he  did  not 
go  on,  and  he  murmuring  that  she  ought  to  have  waited 
four  bars.  Then  they  began  again;  and  once  more 
Mrs.  Mellon  told  every  one  that  love  was  a  rebellious 
bird.  With  Latin  fervour,  with  much  heaving  of 
breast  and  flashing  of  eye,  she  declared,  "Si  tew  ne 
rnaim-ah  pas — je  ?aim-ah"  and  the  warning,  "Si 
je  t'aim-ah  prends  garde  a  toe-ah"  seemed  to  acquire  a 
real  and  very  terrifying  significance. 

Again  Cherie,  who  had  listened  with  becoming  ser- 
iousness to  the  opening  bars,  was  seized  with  a  fit  of 
spasmodic  laughter.  The  agitated  Mrs.  Mellon  tell- 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


ing  every  one  to  beware  of  her  love  seemed  to  her  to 
be  the  most  ludicrous  thing  she  had  ever  heard;  and 
she  bowed  her  face  in  her  hands  and  rocked  to  and 
fro  with  little  gasps  of  hysterical  laughter. 

Louise  glanced  at  her  and  then  at  Mrs.  Mellon;  and 
then  she,  too,  was  caught  by  the  horrible  infection. 
Biting  her  lips  and  with  quivering  nostrils,  she  sat 
rigid  arid  upright,  staring  at  the  platform,  but  her 
shoulders  shook  and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  face, 
which  was  crimon  with  silent  laughter. 

Mrs.  Mellon  must  have  seen  it — were  the  culprits 
not  in  the  first  row? — and  she  looked  disdainfully 
away  from  them ;  but  her  song  grew  fiercer  and  fiercer, 
her  notes  grew  louder  and  higher  as  she  soared  away 
from  the  pitch  and  left  poor  Mr.  Mellon  tinkling  away 
in  the  original  key,  about  three  semitones  below. 

The  other  refugees,  sitting  on  either  side  of  Cherie 
and  Louise,  turned  and  looked  at  them;  the  Pitou 
children  began  to  giggle  but  were  quickly  pinched 
back  into  seriousness  by  their  mother. 

The  next  number  on  the  program  was  a  dance;  a 
somewhat  modified  Salome  dance,  performed  by  Miss 
Price. 

When  Miss  Price  ran  coyly  in  with  bare  legs  and 
feet,  and  a  few  Oriental  jewels  jingling  round  her 
scantily  draped  form,  even  Madame  Pitou  gave  way 
completely,  and  had  to  let  the  little  Pitous  laugh  as 
they  would,  while  she,  with  her  face  hid  behind  her 

-123- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


handkerchief,  gasped  and  choked  and  gurgled.  The 
convulsive  hilarity  soon  gained  all  the  refugees. 
Every  posture  of  Miss  Price,  her  every  gesture,  every 
waggle  of  her  limbs,  every  glimpse  of  the  soles  of  her 
feet — somewhat  soiled  by  contact  with  the  stage  carpet 
— made  all  the  occupants  of  the  two  front  rows  rock 
and  moan  with  laughter.  Those  immediately  behind 
them  noticed  it.  Then  others;  it  was  whispered 
through  the  hall  that  the  refugees  were  laughing. 
Soon  the  entire  audience  was  craning  its  neck  to  look 
at  the  unworthy,  thankless  foreigners  for  whose  benefit 
the  entertainment  had  been  arranged,  and  who  were 
rudely  and  stupidly  laughing  like  two  rows  of  lunatics. 

The  unwitting  Miss  Price  was  just  rising  from  an  at- 
titude of  genuflexion  with  a  rapturous  smile  and  two 
black  marks  on  her  knees,  when  she  caught  sight  of 
the  Pitou  boy  writhing  with  silent  merriment  at  the 
end  of  the  first  row.  Her  eye  wandered  along  that 
row  and  the  next  one  and  she  saw  all  the  bowed  and 
quivering  figures,  the  flushed  faces  hidden  in  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  the  heaving  shoulders. 

Casting  upon  them  a  glance  of  ineffable  disdain 
she  walked  haughtily  with  her  bare  legs  into  the 
wings.  Mr.  Mellon  rippled  on  at  the  piano  for  a  lit- 
tle while,  then  he,  too,  stopped  and  hurried  off  the 
stage  at  the  nearest  exit. 

Behind  the  scenes  the  artists  were  assembled  in 
an  indignation-meeting.  There  were  eleven  numbers 

-124- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


still  to  come,  but  no  one  would  go  on.  It  was  pro- 
posed that  the  curate  should  go  out  and  make  a  short 
but  cutting  speech ;  and  he  went  half-way  out  and  then 
came  back  again,  not  having  anything  ready  to  say. 
Besides  the  sight  of  the  refugees  still  convulsed  with 
laughter  upset  him.  For  their  part  his  appearance 
and  disappearance  did  nothing  to  allay  their  condi- 
tion, now  bordering  on  collective  hysteria. 

Finally,  after  rapid  consultation  in  the  wings,  the 
good-natured  Miss  Johnson  was  prevailed  upon  to  go 
out  and  sing  the  "Merry  Pipes  of  Pan."  She  was  not 
nervous  and  did  not  care  whether  the  silly  refugees 
laughed  or  not. 

When  she  stepped  out  she  saw  that  Mr.  Mellon  was 

not  there  to  accompany  her,  so  after  a  long  wait  she 

went  off  into  the  wings  on  one  side,  just  as  Mr.  Mellon 

—wiping  his  mouth  after  a  hasty  refreshment — came 

hurrying  in  on  the  other. 

Miss  Johnson  had  to  be  coaxed  and  driven  and 
pushed  out  again,  and  this  so  flustered  her  that  she 
forgot  most  of  her  words  and  had  to  make  a  series  of 
inarticulate  sounds  until  she  came  to  the  refrain. 

Here  she  felt  safe. 

"Then  follow  the  mipes," 

she  warbled, 

"The  perry  mipes " 

-125- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


There  seemed  to  be  something  wrong  with  the 
words,  but  she  could  not  get  them  right. 

"Yes,  the  perry  perry  mipes  of  Pan!" 

"Gracious  goodness,"  murmured  the  husky  Miss 
Snelgrove  to  Mrs.  Whitaker,  who  sat  near  her,  "what 
a  strident  voice!" 

"Yes,"  assented  Mrs.  Whitaker.  "And  what  are 
the  'perrimipes,'  I  wonder?" 

There  was  no  denying  it.  The  concert  was  a  fiasco. 
Owing  to  the  execrable  behaviour  of  the  refugees  and 
the  contagion  of  their  senseless  laughter,  a  kind  of 
hysteria  gained  the  hall  and  half  the  audience  was 
soon  in  a  condition  of  brainless  and  uncontrollable 
hilarity. 

Every  new  number  was  greeted  with  suffocated  gig- 
gles, sometimes  even  with  screams  of  laughter  from 
the  younger  portion  of  the  audience. 

The  curate — who  had  himself  been  found  holding 
both  his  sides  in  one  of  the  empty  schoolrooms — 
made  a  caustic  speech  at  the  close  of  the  performance 
about  "our  well-meant  efforts,  our  perchance  too  mod- 
est talents,"  having  appealed  mainly  to  the  risible  fac- 
ulties of  their  foreign  guests,  and  he  had  pleasure  in 
stating  that  the  sum  collected  was  eighteen  pounds 
seven  shillings  and  sixpence. 

-126- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


The  refugees  slunk  home  and  were  treated  like 
pariahs  for  many  weeks  afterwards;  while  the  word 
"Concert"  was  not  pronounced  for  months  in  the 
homes  of  Mrs.  Mellon,  of  Miss  Johnton,  or  of  Mis§ 
Price. 


-127- 


CHAPTER  XI 
CHERIE'S  DIARY 

LOULOU  is  ill,  and  I  am  very  anxious  about  her.  It 
must  be  the  English  climate  perhaps,  for  I  also  do  not 
feel  as  I  used  to  feel  in  Bomal.  I  often  am  deathly 
sick,  and  faint  and  giddy;  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of 
things  and  of  people  that  before  I  did  not  mind,  or 
even  liked.  Certain  puddings,  for  instance,  and  all 
kinds  of  dishes  which  I  thought  so  extraordinarily  nice 
to  eat  when  we  first  came  here,  now  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  them  when  they  are  brought  on  the  table. 
Something  makes  me  grind  my  teeth  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
must  get  up  and  run  out  of  the  room.  And  I  have 
the  same  inexplicable  aversion  to  people ;  for  instance 
the  nice  kind  Monsieur  George  Whitaker — I  cannot 
say  what  I  feel  when  he  comes  near  to  me;  a  sort  of 
shuddering  terror  that  makes  me  turn  away  so  as  not  to 
see  him.  I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  his  strong  brown 
hands  with  the  little  short  fair  hairs  on  his  wrist. 
I  cannot  look  at  his  clear  grey  eyes,  or  at  his  mouth 
which  always  laughs,  or  at  his  broad  shoulders,  or 
anything.  .  .  .  There  is  something  in  me  that 
shrinks  and  shudders  away  from  the  sight  of  him. 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


Have  the  sorrows  and  troubles  we  have  passed  through 
unhinged  my  reason?  .  .  . 

But  to  return  to  Louise.  I  thought  that  what  made 
her  look  so  pale  and  wild  was  the  anxiety  of  not 
hearing  from  Claude;  but  since  his  first  dear  letter 
ten  days  ago  telling  us  that  he  is  safe,  she  seems 
even  worse  than  before.  It  is  true  he  has  been 
wounded;  but  that  is  almost  a  blessing,  for  the 
wound  is  not  serious  and  yet  it  will  keep  him  safely  in 
the  hospital  at  Dunkirk  for  months  to  come.  He  may 
remain  slightly  lame  as  he  has  been  shot  in  the  knee, 
but  that  does  not  matter,  and  he  says  his  health  is 
perfect. 

Of  course  I  thought  Loulou  would  start  at  once  to 
go  and  visit  him,  as  she  can  get  permission  to  see  him 
and  he  has  sent  her  plenty  of  money  for  the  journey; 
but  she  will  not  hear  of  it.  She  only  weeps  and  raves 
when  I  speak  of  it;  and  I  do  not  think  she  ever  sleeps 
at  night.  I  can  hear  her  in  her  room,  which  is  next  to 
mine,  moaning  and  whispering  and  praying  whenever 
I  wake  up.  I  have  asked  her  why,  why  she  will  not  go 
to  see  Claude — ah,  if  only  I  knew  where  to  find  Flor- 
ian,  how  I  should  fly  to  his  side! — but  she  shakes  her 
head  and  weeps  and  her  eyes  are  full  of  terror  and 
madness.  I  ask  her,  "Is  it  because  of  Mireille?  Are 
you  afraid  of  telling  him  about  her?"  "Yes,  yes, 
yes,"  she  cries.  "I  am  afraid,  afraid  of  telling  him 
what  has  made  her  as  she  is." 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


"But,  Loulou,  dearest,  what  do  you  mean?  Was 
it  not  her  fear  that  the  Germans  would  kill  us  that 
took  away  her  speech?  Why  should  you  not  tell 
Claude?  He  would  comfort  you.  He  knows  the 
Germans  were  in  Bomal!  He  knows  that  they  ran- 
sacked our  house,  that  they  killed  Monsieur  le  Cure 
and  poor  Andre  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  he  knows  that,"  answers  Louise  slowly  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  mine.  "But  he  does  not  know 

Then  she  is  silent. 

"What  does  he  not  know?" 

She  grasps  my  shoulders.  "Cherie,  Cherie.  Are 
you  demented?  Have  you  forgotten — have  you  for- 
gotten?" 

"Forgotten!  ...  In  truth,  I  have  forgotten  many 
things.  There  are  gaps  in  my  memory,  wide  blank 
spaces  that,  no  matter  how  I  try  to  remember,  I  cannot 
fill.  Now  and  then  something  flashes  into  those  blank 
spaces,  a  fleeting  recollection,  a  transient  vision,  then 
the  blankness  closes  down  again  and  when  I  try  to  re- 
member what  I  have  remembered,  it  is  gone. 

I  ask  Louise  to  tell  me  what  she  means,  to  tell  me 
what  I  have  forgotten;  but  she  only  stares  at  me  with 
those  horror-haunted  eyes  and  whispers,  "Hush!  hush, 
my  poor  Cherie!"  Then  she  places  her  cold  hand  on 
my  lips  as  if  to  close  them. 

I  will  try  to  remember.  I  will  write  down  in  this 
book  all  that  remains  in  my  memory  of  those  terrible 

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days  and  nights  when  we  fled  from  home ;  when  we  hid 
starving  and  trembling  in  the  woods,  and  saw  through 
the  trees  our  church-tower  burn  like  a  torch,  saw  it 
list  over  and  crash  down  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  and 
flame;  when,  crouching  in  a  ditch,  we  heard  the  Uhlans 
gallop  past  us  and  saw  them  drag  two  little  boys, 
Cesar  and  Emile  Duroc,  out  of  their  hiding-places  in 
the  bushes  only  a  few  yards  from  us. 

We  saw  them — we  saw  them! — crush  the  children's 
feet  with  the  butts  of  their  rifles,  and  then  taunt  them, 
telling  them  to  "run  away!"  I  can  see  them  now — 
two  of  the  men  standing  behind  the  children,  holding 
them  upright  by  their  small  shoulders,  while  a  third 
beat  and  crunched  and  ground  their  feet  into  the 
earth.  .  .  . 

•  •••••• 

But  stay  .  .  .  the  wide  blank  spaces  in  my  brain 
go  back  much  further  than  that. 

What  is  it  that  Louise  says  I  have  forgotten?  Let 
me  try  to  remember.  Let  me  try  to  remember. 

I  will  go  back  to  the  evening  of  my  birthday.  Au- 
gust the  fourth.  Our  friends  come.  We  dance. 

Sur  le  pont 

D'Avignon 

On  y  danse,  on  y  danse.  .  .  . 

Then  Florian  arrives — and  goes.  The  last  thing  I 
see  clearly — distinct  and  clear-cut  as  a  haut-relief 

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carved  upon  my  brain — is  Florian,  turning  at  the  end 
of  the  road  to  wave  his  hand  to  me.  Then  he  is  gone. 
I  remain  standing  on  the  verandah,  alone;  I  can  see 
the  row  of  pink  and  white  carnations  in  their  pots  at 
my  feet;  Louise's  favourite  malmaisons  fill  the  air 
with  perfume,  and  the  large  white  daisies  among 
them  gleam  like  stars  in  the  grey-green  twilight;  I  am 
wearing  my  white  dress  and  the  sea-blue  scarf  Louise 
has  given  me  that  morning.  Then  little  Mireille's 
laughing  voice  calls  me;  they  all  come  running  out  to 
fetch  me,  Lucile  and  Cri-cri,  Verveine,  Cecile  and 
Jeannette.  .  .  . 

Then,  suddenly — the  gun !  the  thud  and  roll  of  that 
first  distant  gun !  .  .  . 

The  children  have  fled,  pale,  trembling,  whispering 
to  their  homes,  and  we  are  left  alone  in  the  house; 
alone,  Louise,  Mireille  and  I,  because  Frieda  and 
Fritz — wait!  what  do  I  remember  about  Fritz?  That 
he  is  throwing  our  gate  open  to  the  enemy — no;  it  is 
something  else  .  .  .  something  that  frightens  me 
more  than  that — but  I  cannot  remember.  I  see  Fritz 
laughing.  Whenever  I  remember  Fritz  I  see  him 
laughing.  He  is  leaning  against  a  door  .  .  .  there 
is  a  curtain.  ...  I  seem  to  see  a  red  curtain  swaying 
beside  him  and  he  is  laughing  with  his  head  thrown 
back.  What  is  he  laughing  at?  ...  At  me?  What 
is  happening  that  he  should  laugh  at  me?  The  blank 

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closes  round  Fritz.  He  has  vanished.  I  cannot  hold 
him.  It  is  as  if  he  were  made  of  mist. 

But — before  that;  what  do  I  remember  before 
that?  .  .  . 

The  guns  are  thundering,  the  windows  shake  .  .  . 
a  huge  sheaf  of  flame  rises  up  into  the  sky.  There  is 
a  roar,  an  explosion ;  it  is  as  if  the  world  were  crash- 
ing to  pieces. 

Then  soldiers  fill  the  house ;  officers  take  possession 
of  our  rooms — their  coats  and  belts  are  on  our  chairs, 
their  helmets  are  flung  on  the  piano.  There  is  a  tall 
man  with  very  light  eyes  .  .  . 

A  tall  man  with  very  light  eyes.  .  .  . 

Let  me  try  to  remember. 

They  order  us  about;  they  make  Louise  cry.  One 
of  them  is  wounded  in  the  arm — I  see  it  bleeding  on 
the  wet  cotton-wool  that  Louise  is  binding  round  it — 
Now  the  blank  comes.  ...  I  feel  it  coming  down  like 
a  white  cloud  on  my  brain.  Lift  it,  oh,  holy  Mother, 
lift  it  and  let  me  remember! 

There  are  two  of  the  men  near  me ;  they  blow  their 
cigarette-smoke  in  my  face ;  they  want  me  to  drink  out 
of  their  glasses.  ...  I  weep  ...  I  will  not.  They 
laugh  and  force  me  to  drink.  Eins,  zwei,  drei! — they 
threaten  me  with  I  know  not  what — the  light  eyes  of 
one  of  them  are  close  to  mine  .  .  .  impelling  me, 
forcing  me  ...  I  am  frightened,  and  I  drink.  Then 

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they  sing  and  clink  their  glasses  together.  I  stand 
between  them,  and  they  make  me  drink  again — cool 
frothing  champagne  and  hot  burning  brandy — until 
I  am  so  giddy  that  the  floor  heaves  under  my  feet. 

I  cry  and  cry.  I  call  Louise  .  .  .  she  is  gone 
from  the  room.  I  see  Mireille  crouching  in  a  cor- 
ner staring  at  me,  white  and  terrified.  I  call  her — 
"Mireille!  Mireille!"  She  springs  up  and  rushes 
to  me,  she  screams  like  a  maddened  animal,  and  the 
light-eyed  man  catches  her  by  the  wrists  and  laughs. 
The  other  man — one  of  the  other  men,  I  don't  know 
how  many  there  are — one  who  has  red  hair  and  has 
been  reciting  something  in  German,  lies  down  on 
the  sofa  and  goes  to  sleep.  But  another  one — I  re- 
member his  round  face,  I  remember  that  the  others 
were  angry  with  him  and  called  him  names — he 
comes  near  to  me  and  says  something  quickly  in  my 
ear.  I  am  not  afraid  of  him  ...  I  know  he  is  trying 
to  help  me  .  .  .  but  I  am  so  sick  and  giddy  that  I  do 
not  understand  what  he  says.  He  pushes  me  towards 
the  door.  He  says  in  German:  "Geh!  Geh!  Mack' 
doss  du  fort  kommst!"  and  again  he  pushes  me  to- 
ward the  door.  But  I  turn  to  see  what  is  being  done 
to  Mireille.  She  has  a  broken  glass  in  her  hand  and 
she  is  trying  to  strike  the  tall  officer  in  the  face  with 
it,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  strike  at  his  light  eyes  and 
put  them  out.  There  is  a  streak  of  blood  on  his  chin 
but  he  is  still  laughing.  He  snatches  up  my  blue 

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scarf  which  is  lying  on  the  floor  and  he  ties  Mireille's 
hands  behind  her  back  with  it.  Then  he  winds  it 
round  and  round  her  until  she  cannot  move.  Wait — 
wait — let  me  remember!  .  .  .  Then  he  takes  one  of 
the  leather  belts  that  are  on  the  chair  and  he  straps 
her  to  the  railing — the  wrought-iron  railing  that  ends 
the  short  flight  of  steps  that  lead  to  the  drawing-room. 
I  see  him  lifting  her  up  those  three  shallow  steps,  I 
see  him  kick  over  the  china  flower-pot  on  the  top  step 
in  order  to  get  nearer  to  the  iron  banister,  I  see  him 
fasten  her  to  it  with  the  leather  strap.  .  .  .  Her  little 
wild  face  is  turned  towards  me,  her  hands  are  tied 
behind  her  back.  I  hear  what  he  says  in  German — 
he  is  laughing  and  laughing — "Da  bleibst  du  .  .  . 
und  schaust  zu!"  Is  he  going  to  kill  her?  "Schau 
nur  zu!  Schau  nur  zu"  he  repeats.  What  does  he 
mean?  Is  he  going  to  kill  me — to  kill  me  before 
her  eyes? 

He  comes  toward  me  .  .  .  (the  white  cloud  is  com- 
ing over  my  brain  again).  I  see  the  other  officer — 
the  one  with  the  round  face,  the  one  who  had  tried  to 
push  me  to  the  door — Glotz!  yes,  Glotz,  that  was  his 
name — I  see  him  dart  forward  and  catch  hold  of  the 
other  man's  arms — stopping  him — keeping  him  away 
from  me.  I  rush  to  Mireille  and  try  to  drag  her 
away  from  the  railing,  to  free  her  ...  I  cannot. 
My  fingers  have  no  strength.  She  is  crying  and 
moaning.  I  hear  Glotz  shouting  again  to  me  in 

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German — "Get  away — get  away!"  He  is  struggling 
with  the  tall  man  to  give  me  time  to  escape.  I  stum- 
ble up  the  stairs  screaming,  "Louise!  Louise!"  I 
fall,  again  and  again,  at  almost  every  step,  but  I 
stumble  on  and  reach  her  door — it  is  locked.  Locked 
from  the  inside.  But  I  hear  sounds  in  the  room — a 
man's  hoarse  agitated  voice.  .  .  . 

I  stagger  blindly  on.  I  will  go  to  my  room,  I 
will  lock  myself  in  there,  and  open  the  window  and 
call  for  help.  .  .  . 

I  turn  the  handle  and  open  my  door.  On  the 
threshold  I  stop.  .  .  .  There  is  something  lying  there 
— a  black  heap,  with  blood  trickling  from  it. 
Amour!  It  is  Amour,  with  his  skull  crushed  in. 

As  I  stand  looking  down  at  it  I  hear  a  man's  foot- 
steps running  up  the  stairs — I  know  it  is  the  tall  man 
—he  is  coming  to  find  me!  I  stagger  blindly  for- 
ward, my  feet  slipping  in  Amour's  blood.  I  draw 
the  door  after  me.  I  rush  forward  and  hide  behind 
the  curtained  alcove  where  my  dresses  hang.  The 
man  stops  at  the  door  and  looks  in.  He  sees  the  dead 
dog  on  the  threshold ;  he  says  "Pfui"  and  tries  to  push 
it  aside  with  his  foot.  He  glances  round  the  appar- 
ently empty  room,  then  he  turns  away  and  I  hear  him 
going  down  the  passage,  opening  other  doors,  thump- 
ing at  Louise's  door,  where  the  voice  of  a  man  answers 
him.  .  .  .  Then  I  hear  him  running  upstairs  to  the 
top  floor  in  search  of  me. 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


I  slip  from  my  hiding-place,  I  stumble  again  over 
the  horrible  thing  that  was  Amour,  and  I  rush  down 
the  stairs  and  into  the  drawing-room.  Mireille  is 
still  there,  tied  to  the  banister,  her  face  thrown  back, 
the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes.  She  is  alone,  but 
for  the  red-haired  officer  asleep  and  snoring  on  the 
sofa.  A  thought  has  come  to  me.  I  cross  the  room, 
which  swims  round  me,  and  I  go  to  the  sideboard — I 
take  the  bottle  of  corrosive  sublimate  from  the  shelf 
where  Louise  had  put  it — I  open  it  and  shake  some 
of  the  little  pink  tablets  into  my  hand — then  I  run  to 
the  table  where  the  wine-glasses  stand.  One  of  them 
is  still  half -filled  with  champagne.  I  drop  the  tablets 
into  it.  Even  as  I  do  so  I  hear  the  man  coming  down- 
stairs. He  appears  on  the  top  of  the  short  flight,  near 
Mireille,  and  laughs  as  he  sees  me.  "Ha,  ha!  the 
dovelet  who  tried  to  escape!" 

I  smile  up  at  him.  I  smile,  moving  back  towards 
that  side  of  the  table  where  his  wine-glass  stands. 
He  passes  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  hair;  his 
face  is  hot;  I  know  he  is  going  to  drink  again.  Then 
he  lurches  towards  me;  he  puts  one  hand  round  my 
waist  and  with  the  other  grasps  the  glass  on  the  table. 
.  .  .  Now  this  again  I  see,  clear-cut  in  my  memory  as 
if  carved  into  it  with  a  knife;  the  tall  man  standing 
beside  me  raising  the  wine-glass  to  his  lips.  .  .  . 

He  stops — he  looks  down  into  the  glass.  His  face 
is  motionless,  expressionless.  He  merely  stares  at 

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the  little  bright  pink  heap  at  the  bottom  of  the  glass 
from  which  spiral  streaks  of  colour  slowly  curl  up 
and  tint  the  pale-gold  wine. 

For  what  seems  to  me  hours  or  eternities  he  stares 
at  the  glass;  then  his  light  eyes  turn  slowly  upon  me. 
And  this  is  the  last  thing  I  see. 

I  carry  the  gaze  of  those  light  eyes  with  me  as  I 
slip  suddenly  into  unconsciousness.  I  hear  a  crash — 
is  it  the  glass  that  has  fallen?  ...  I  feel  the  grasp 
of  two  strong  hot  hands  on  my  arms — is  he  holding 
me,  or  crushing  me  down?  I  hear  Mireille  shriek  as 
I  try  madly  to  beat  back  the  enveloping  darkness. 
Mireille's  piercing  voice  follows  me  into  oblivion. 

Then  nothing  more.  .  .  . 

Nothing  more. 

•  ••*••• 

The  cloud  that  blots  out  consciousness  lifts  for  an 
instant — is  it  a  moment  later?  or  hours  later?  Or 
years  later?  ...  I  have  no  idea. 

I  feel  that  I  am  being  lifted  .  .  .  carried  along 
.  .  .  then  flung  down.  I  feel  my  head  thrown  far 
back,  my  hair  dragged  from  my  forehead.  .  .  .  The 
world  is  full  of  rushing  horrors,  of  tearing,  racking 
pain.  .  .  .  Then  again  nothing  more. 

Fritz?  ...  Is  it  then  that  I  see  him  laughing  as 
he  looks  at  me?  He  is  standing  near  a  red  curtain — 
he  is  speaking  to  some  one,  but  his  eyes  are  upon  me 
and  he  laughs.  .  .  . 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


Once  more  unconsciousness  like  a  black  velvet  tun- 
nel engulfs  me. 

•  •••••• 

Out  of  the  darkness  comes  Louise's  voice  calling  me 
softly  .  .  .  then  louder  .  .  .  then  screaming  my 
name.  I  open  my  eyes.  She  is  bending  over  me. 
She  lifts  me  up  ...  she  wraps  a  shawl  round  my 
head,  she  drags  me  along  .  .  .  drags  me  down  the 
steps  and  out  of  the  house  and  down  a  stony  road  that 
leads  to  the  woods. 

It  is  not  day  and  it  is  not  night;  it  is  dawn  perhaps. 

Thirst  and  a  deathly  sickness  are  upon  me.  ...  I 
can  go  no  farther.  I  lean  my  head  against  a  tree, 
the  rough  bark  of  it  wounds  my  forehead  as  I  slip 
to  the  ground  and  fall  on  the  damp  leaves  and  moss. 

I  moan  and  cry. 

"Hush!  for  the  love  of  heaven!  Hush!"  ...  It 
is  Louise's  voice.  "Hide,  hide,  lie  down!" 

And  she  drags  me  into  a  deep  ditch  overgrown  with 
brambles.  We  hear  horses  gallop  past  and  men's 
voices,  full  guttural  voices  that  we  know  and  dread. 
They  ride  on.  They  are  gone.  No — they  stop. 

They  have  found  widow  Duroc's  two  little  boys 
hiding  in  the  bushes.  .  .  .  Little  Cesar  is  shoulder- 
ing a  wooden  gun  and  points  it  at  them.  In  a  mo- 
ment three  of  the  men  are  off  their  horses.  .  .  .  The 
children  must  be  punished. 

The  children  are  punished. 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


.  .  .  Then  the  men  ride  on.  But  the  torture  of 
those  children  has  reminded  me  of  Mireille. 
"Mireille — "  I  cry.  "We  must  go  back  and  fetch 
Mireille!" 

"Hush!     Mireille  is  here." 

Mireille  is  here!  She  is  not  dead?  Then  who  is 
dead? 

"No  one,  no  one  is  dead,"  says  Louise,  "we  are  all 
three  here." 

No — no — no!  Somebody  is  dead.  Somebody 
has  been  killed,  I  know  it.  I  know  it.  Who  is  it? 
Is  it  I — is  it  Cherie  who  is  dead?  Louise's  arms  are 
about  me,  her  tears  fall  on  my  face. 

Then  once  again  the  velvet  mist  falls,  and  the  world 

is  blotted  out. 

.....«• 

We  are  on  board  a  ship,  dipping  and  rising  on 
green-grey  waters.  .  .  . 

Many  people  are  around  us;  derelicts  like  our- 
selves. .  .  . 

Soon  the  white  cliffs  of  England  shine  and  welcome 
us. 


-140- 


CHAPTER  XII 
CHERIE'S  DIARY 

NOVEMBER  2nd  (All  Souls). — It  is  strange,  but  even 
yet  the  feeling  comes  over  me  now  and  again  that 
somebody  was  murdered  on  that  night.  And,  strang- 
est of  all,  I  cannot  free  myself  of  the  thought  that 
it  was  I — I,  who  was  killed,  I,  who  am  no  more.  I 
cannot  describe  the  feeling.  Doubtless  it  is  folly.  It 
is  weakness  and  shock.  It  is  what  the  good  English 
doctor  who  has  been  called  in  to  see  us  all — especially 
to  try  and  cure  Mireille — calls  "psychic  trauma." 
He  says  Mireille  is  suffering  from  psychic  trauma; 
that  means  that  her  soul  has  been  wounded.  Some- 
times I  feel  as  if  my  soul  had  not  only  been  wounded 
but  that  it  had  been  killed — murdered  while  I  was  un- 
conscious. I  feel  as  if  it  were  only  a  ghost,  a  spectre 
that  resembles  me  and  bears  my  name,  but  not  the 
real  Cherie,  that  wanders  in  this  English  garden,  that 
speaks  and  smiles,  kisses  and  comforts  Louise,  prays 
for  Claude  and  for  Florian. 

Florian!  Florian!  Where  are  you?  Are  you 
dead,  too?  Is  this  sense  of  annihilation,  of  unreality 
in  me  but  an  omen,  a  warning  of  your  real  death? 
My  brave  young  lover,  blue-eyed  and  gay,  have  you 

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gone  from  life?  If  I  wander  through  all  the  world, 
if  I  journey  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  shall  I  never  meet 
you  again? 

Oh  God!  I  wish  we  were  all  safely  dead,  Louise 
and  I  and  poor  little  Mireille;  all  lying  silent  and  at 
peace,  with  closed  eyes  and  quiet  folded  hands.  I 
often  think  how  good  it  would  be  if  we  could  all  three 
escape  from  life,  as  we  escaped  from  the  foe-haunted 
wood  that  night;  if  we  could  silently  slip  away,  out  of 
the  long  days  and  the  dark  nights ;  out  of  the  hot  sum- 
mers and  the  dreary  winters;  out  of  feverish  youth  and 
desolate  old  age;  out  of  hunger  and  thirst,  out  of  exile 
and  home-sickness,  out  of  the  past  and  out  of  the 
future,  out  of  love  and  out  of  hate.  Oh!  to  lie  in 
peace  under  the  waving  trees  of  the  little  cemetery  in 
Bomal,  all  with  quiet  heart  and  closed  eyes.  And  by 
our  side  like  a  marble  hero,  Florian,  Florian  as  I  have 
known  and  loved  him,  Florian  faithful  and  brave  and 
true. 

.  .  .  But  what  of  Claude?  What  would  he  do 
alone  in  the  world,  poor  lame  Claude,  whose  country 
is  ravaged,  whose  home  is  devastated,  whose  wife 
fears  him,  whose  child  cannot  speak  to  him  .  .  .  and 
whose  sister,  though  she  lives,  has  been  murdered  in 
her  sleep? 

November  15th. — Doctor  Reynolds  called  today. 
Louise  said  she  wanted  him.  Then  when  he  came 

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she  would  not  see  him.  She  locked  herself  in  her 
room,  and  nobody  could  persuade  her  to  come  down. 

So  it  was  I  who  took  Mireille  into  the  drawing- 
room  where  Mrs.  Whitaker  and  the  doctor  were  wait- 
ing for  us.  They  were  talking  rather  excitedly  when 
I  knocked  at  the  door — at  least  Mrs.  Whitaker  was — 
but  when  we  entered  she  did  not  say  a  word. 

She  looked  me  up  and  down  and  I  felt  sorry  that  I 
had  Louise's  old  black  frock  on  instead  of  the  new 
navy  suit  they  had  made  for  me  a  month  ago.  But  I 
cannot  fasten  it,  it  is  so  tight  round  my  throat  and 
waist.  That  reminds  me  that  when  Mrs.  Whitaker 
said  the  other  day  that  she  wished  Doctor  Reynolds 
to  see  me,  I  laughed  and  told  her  about  my  dresses 
being  so  tight,  assuring  her  therefore  that  there  could 
not  be  much  wrong  with  me.  She  did  not  laugh,  how- 
ever; on  the  contrary,  she  stared  at  me  very  strangely 
and  fixedly,  and  did  not  answer. 

I  don't  know  what  is  wrong  in  the  house,  but  every- 
body seems  silent  and  constrained  and  not  so  kind  as 
they  used  to  be.  Eva  has  been  sent  away  to  stay  with 
friends  in  Hastings,  and  George,  who  is  at  Aldershot, 
comes  home  for  a  day  or  so  every  now  and  then,  but 
hardly  ever  speaks  to  us.  He  wanders  about  the 
roads  near  the  house,  or  goes  into  the  garden,  the  sad 
rainy  garden,  flicking  the  wet  grasses  and  flowerless 
plants  with  his  riding-stick.  He  often  glances  up  at 
the  window  where  I  sit  as  if  he  would  like  to  speak 

-143- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


to  us;  but  if  I  nod  and  smile  at  him  he  looks  at  me  for 
an  instant  and  then  turns  away.  I  have  an  idea  that 
his  mother  objects  to  his  talking  with  us  much.  He 
wanted  Louise  or  me  to  read  French  with  him,  but 
after  the  first  day  his  mother  had  a  long  talk  with  him 
and  he  did  not  come  to  our  sitting-room  again. 

Perhaps  they  are  tired  of  having  us  in  the  house. 
I  am  not  surprised.  We  are  doleful  creatures,  and 
we  all  have  something  the  matter  with  us.  I  myself 
sometimes  imagine  I  am  going  into  consumption;  I 
feel  so  strange  and  faint,  I  feel  so  sick  when  I  eat, 
and  I  have  the  most  terrible  pains  in  my  chest.  Also 
I  am  anaemic,  I  know.  But  still  I  don't  cough.  So 
perhaps  I  am  all  right. 

When  we  went  into  the  drawing-room  today  the 
kindly  old  doctor  felt  Mireille's  pulse  and  spoke  to 
her,  but  all  the  time  he  was  looking  at  me,  and  so  was 
Mrs.  Whitaker.  He  asked  me  several  questions  and 
when  I  told  him  what  I  felt,  he  coughed  and  said, 
"Hm.  .  .  .  Yes.  Quite  so."  At  last  he  glanced  at 
Mrs.  Whitaker,  who  at  once  got  up  and  left  the  room 
with  Mireille. 

The  doctor  then  beckoned  to  me  and  took  my  hand. 

"My  poor  girl,"  he  said,  "have  you  anything  to  tell 
me?" 

I  was  frightened.  "What  do  you  mean?  Am  I 
going  to  die?  Am  I  very  ill?" 

-144- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


He  shook  his  head.  "No.  Why  should  you  die? 
People  don't  die — "  he  commenced,  and  stopped. 

"What  about  Mireille?"  I  asked,  feeling  terrified, 
I  knew  not  why. 

"Now  we  are  speaking  of  you,"  he  said,  quite 
sternly. 

Again  he  stopped  as  if  expecting  me  to  say  some- 
thing. I  was  bewildered.  Perhaps  the  old  man  was 
a  little  strange  in  his  head. 

He  coughed  once  more  and  his  face  flushed.  Then 
he  said:  "I  am  an  old  man,  my  dear.  I  am  a 
father—  He  stopped  again.  "And  I  know  all  the 
sadness  and  wickednesses  of  the  world.  You  may 
confide  in  me." 

"I  said:  "Thank  you  very  much.  I  am  sure  I 
can." 

There  was  another  long  silence.  He  seemed  to  be 
waiting.  Then  he  got  up  and  his  face  was  a  little 
hard.  "Well,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  prefer  speak- 
ing to  Mrs.  Whitaker." 

"Oh  no!"  I  exclaimed.     "Why— not  at  all." 

Again  he  waited.  Then  he  took  his  hat  and  gloves. 
"Well — as  you  like,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I  cannot 
compel  you  to  speak.  You  must  go  your  own  way. 
I  suppose  you  have  your  reasons."  And  he  left  the 
room. 

I  stood  petrified  with  wonder.  What  did  he  mean 
-145- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


about  my  going  my  own  way?  Why  did  he  seem  dis- 
pleased with  me?  As  I  opened  the  door  to  go  back 
to  my  room,  I  heard  him  in  the  hall  speaking  to  Mrs. 
Whitaker. 

"No,"  he  was  saying.  "I  feel  sure  I  am  not  mis- 
taken. But  she  would  not  approach  the  subject  at 
all." 

What  a  queer  nightmare  world  we  are  living  in ! 

Later. — I  am  expected  to  say  something,  I  know  not 
what.  Everybody  looks  at  me  with  an  air  of  expecta- 
tion— that  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Whitaker  does.  But  strang- 
est thing  of  all,  I  sometimes  think  that  Loulou  does 
too.  There  are  long  silences  between  us,  and  when 
I  raise  my  eyes  I  find  her  looking  at  me  with  a  sort 
of  breathless  eagerness,  an  expression  of  anxiety  and 
suspense  of  which  I  cannot  grasp  the  meaning. 

Late  at  night. — Mrs.  Whitaker  was  very  strange  this 
evening.  She  came  into  my  bedroom  without  warn- 
ing, and  found  me  on  my  knees.  I  was  weeping  and 
saying  my  prayers.  She  suddenly  came  towards  me 
with  an  impulsive  gesture  of  kindness  and  took  me  in 
her  arms. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  she  said,  and  she  kissed  me. 
She  added,  as  if  she  were  echoing  the  sentiments  of 
the  kind  old  doctor,  "Cherie,  I  am  a  mother — " 
Then  she  stopped.  "And  I  am  not  such  a  sour,  hard 

-146- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


person  as  I  look."  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  so  I 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  She  sat  down  on  a  low 
chair  and  drew  me  to  a  footstool  beside  her.  "Tell 
me,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  everything.  I  shall  under- 
stand." 

So  I  told  her.  I  told  her  how  unhappy  I  was  about 
Louise  and  Mireille,  I  told  her  about  Claude  in  the 
hospital.  She  said,  "I  know  all  that.  Go  on." 
Then  I  told  her  about  Florian,  how  brave  and  hand- 
some he  was,  and  that  we  were  betrothed.  Then  I 
wept  bitterly  and  told  her  I  thought  that  he  was  dead. 

She  raised  my  face  with  her  hand  and  looked  into 
my  eyes.  "Is  it  he?"  she  said. 

I  did  not  understand.  She  repeated  her  question. 
"Is  it  he?  Did  he — "  she  hesitated  as  if  looking  for 
a  word — "did  he  wrong  you?" 

"Why?     How  wrong  me?"  I  asked. 

She  gazed  deeply  into  my  eyes  and  I  gazed  back 
as  steadfastly  at  her,  wondering  what  she  meant. 

"Did  he  betray  you?" 

"Betray  me?  Never!"  I  cried.  "He  could  never 
betray.  He  is  true  and  faithful  as  a  saint." 

I  was  hurt  that  she  should  have  asked  such  a  ques- 
tion. Florian,  who  has  never  looked  at  or  thought  of 
any  woman  but  me!  Betray  me! 

"Well,"  she  said  rising  to  her  feet  suddenly — her 
expression  of  rather  cold  dignity  again  reminded  me 
of  the  doctor.  "If  it  had  been  the  outrage  of  an 

-147- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


enemy  I  know  you  would  have  told  me.  However, 
let  it  be  as  you  wish.  I  will  say  only  this:  where  I 
could  have  pitied  disgrace,  I  cannot  condone  deceit." 

And  she  left  me. 

Am  I  dreaming,  or  are  people  in  this  country  in- 
comprehensible and  demented? 


-148- 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LOUISE  looked  her  doom  in  the  face  with  steady  eyes. 
No  more  hope,  no  more  doubt  was  possible.  This 
was  November.  The  third  month  had  passed. 

What  she  had  dreaded  more  than  death  had  come  to 
pass.  From  the  first  hour  the  fear  of  it  had  haunted 
her.  Now  she  knew.  She  knew  that  the  outrage  to 
which  she  had  been  subjected  would  endure;  she  knew 
that  her  shame  would  live. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  after  tossing  sleeplessly 
for  hours,  the  full  realization  of  this  struck  her  heart 
like  a  blow.  She  sat  up  with  clenched  teeth  in  the 
darkness,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  temples. 

After  a  while  she  slid  from  her  bed  and  stood  mo- 
tionless in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Around  her  the 
world  was  asleep.  She  was  alone  with  her  despair 
and  her  horror. 

How  should  she  elude  her  fate?  How  should  she 
flee  from  herself  and  the  horror  within  her? 

She  turned  on  the  light  and  went  with  quick  steps  to 
the  mirror.  There  she  stood  with  bare  feet  in  her 
long  white  nightdress,  staring  at  herself.  Yes.  She 
nodded  and  nodded  like  a  demented  creature  at  the 
reflection  she  saw  before  her.  She  recognized  the 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


aspect  of  it;  the  dragged  features,  the  restless  eyes,  the 
face  that  seemed  already  too  small  for  her  body,  the 
hunted  anxious  look.  That  was  maternity.  To  vio- 
lence nature  had  conceded  what  had  been  withheld 
from  love.  What  she  and  Claude  had  longed  for, 
had  prayed  for — another  child — behold,  now  it  was 
vouchsafed  to  her. 

With  teeth  clenched  she  gazed  at  her  white-draped 
reflection,  she  gazed  at  the  hated  fragile  frame  in 
which  the  eternal  mystery  of  life  was  being  accom- 
plished. With  the  groan  of  a  tortured  animal  she  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands.  What  should  she  do?  Oh 
God!  what  should  she  do? 

Then  began  for  Louise  the  heartbreaking  pursuit  of 
liberation,  the  nightmare,  the  obsession  of  deliver- 
ance. 

All  was  vain.  Nature  pursued  its  inexorable 
course. 

Then  she  determined  that  she  must  die.  There  was 
no  help  for  it — she  must  die.  She  dreaded  death; 
she  was  tied  to  life  by  a  two-fold  instinct — her  own 
and  that  of  the  unborn  being  within  her.  How 
tenacious  was  its  hold  on  life!  It  would  not  die  and 
free  her.  It  clung  with  all  its  tendrils  to  its  own 
abhorred  existence.  Every  night  as  she  lay  awake 
she  pictured  what  it  would  be  if  it  were  born — this 
creature  conceived  in  savagery  and  debauch,  this  child 

-150- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


that  she  loathed  and  dreaded.  She  could  imagine  it 
living — a  demon,  a  monster,  a  thing  to  shriek  at,  to 
make  one's  blood  run  cold.  Waking  and  in  her 
dreams  she  saw  it;  she  saw  it  crawling  like  a  reptile, 
she  saw  it  stained  with  the  colour  of  blood,  she  saw 
it  babbling  and  mouthing  at  her,  frenzied  and  insane. 
.  .  .  That  is  what  she  would  give  life  to,  that  is  what 
she  would  have  to  nurse  and  to  nourish;  carrying  that 
in  her  arms  she  would  go  to  meet  her  husband  when  he 
came  limping  back  from  the  war  on  his  crutches. 

She  pictured  that  meeting  with  Claude  in  a  hundred 
different  ways,  all  horrible,  all  dreadful  beyond 
words.  Claude  staring  at  her,  not  believing,  not  un- 
derstanding .  .  .  Claude  going  mad.  .  .  .  Claude 
lifting  his  crutch  and  crushing  the  child's  skull  with 
it,  as  Amour's  skull  had  been  crushed — ah!  the  dead 
horrible  Amour  that  she  had  seen  when  she  staggered 
out  of  the  room  at  dawn  that  day!  .  .  .  That  was  the 
first  thing  she  had  seen — that  gruesome  animal  with  its 
brains  beaten  out  and  its  gleaming  teeth  uncovered. 
She  could  see  it  now,  she  could  always  see  it  when  she 
closed  her  eyes!  What  if  this  sight  had  impressed 
itself  so  deeply  upon  her.  .  .  .  Hush!  this  was  insan- 
ity; she  knew  that  she  was  going  mad. 

So  she  must  die. 

How  should  she  die?  And  when  she  was  dead, 
what  would  happen  to  Mireille?  And  to  Cherie? 

Cherie!  At  the  thought  of  Cherie  a  new  rush 
-151- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


of  ideas  overwhelmed  Louise's  wandering  brain. 
Cherie!  What  was  the  matter  with  Cherie? 

Had  not  she  also  that  tense  look,  those  pinched 
features,  all  those  unmistakable  signs  that  Louise  well 
knew  how  to  interpret?  Was  it  possible  that  the 
same  doom  had  overtaken  her? 

Then  Louise  forced  herself  to  remember  what  she 
would  have  given  her  life  to  forget.  With  eyes 
closed,  with  shuddering  soul,  she  compelled  herself 
to  live  over  again  the  darkest  hours  of  her  life. 

.  .  .  Before  daybreak  on  the  5th  of  August.  The 
house  was  silent.  The  invaders  had  gone.  Louise, 
a  livid  spectre  in  the  pale  grey  dawn,  had  staggered 
from  her  room — passing  the  dead  Amour  on  Cherie's 
threshold — and  had  stumbled  down  the  stairs.  There 
at  the  foot  of  the  wrought-iron  banister  lay  Mireille, 
her  mouth  open,  her  breath  coming  in  gasps,  like  a 
little  dying  bird. 

Louise  had  raised  her,  had  unwound  the  long  scarf 
that  bound  her,  had  sprinkled  water  on  her  face  and 
poured  brandy  down  her  throat  .  .  .  until  Mireille 
had  opened  her  eyes.  Then  Louise  had  seen  that 
they  were  not  Mireille's  eyes.  There  was  frenzy 
and  vacancy  in  the  pale  orbs  that  wandered  round  the 
room,  wandered  and  wandered — until  they  stopped 
and  were  fixed,  suddenly  wild,  hallucinated  and  in- 
tent. On  what  were  they  fixed  with  such  an  expres- 
sion of  unearthly  terror?  The  mother  turned  to  see. 

-152- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


Mireille's  wild  gaze  was  fixed  upon  a  door,  the 
red-curtained  door  of  a  bedroom.  It  was  a  spare 
room,  seldom  used;  sometimes  a  guest  or  one  of 
Claude's  patients  had  slept  there. 

It  was  on  this  door — now  flung  wide  open  and 
with  the  red  drapery  torn  down — that  Mireille's  wild, 
meaningless  gaze  was  fixed.  Louise  looked.  Then 
she  looked  again,  without  moving.  She  could  see 
that  the  electric  lights  were  burning  in  the  room;  a 
chair  was  overturned  in  the  doorway,  and  there, 
there  on  the  bed,  lay  a  figure — Cherie!  Cherie  still 
in  her  white  muslin  dress  all  torn  and  bloodstained, 
Cherie  with  her  two  hands  stretched  upwards  and  tied 
to  the  bedpost  above  her  head.  A  wide  pink  ribbon 
had  been  torn  from  her  hair  and  used  to  tie  her 
hands  to  the  brass  bedstead.  Her  face  was  scratched 
and  bleeding.  She  was  quite  unconscious.  Louise 
thought  she  was  dead. 

Ah!  how  had  she  found  the  strength  to  lift  her,  to 
call  her,  to  drag  her  back  to  life,  weeping  over  her 
and  Mireille,  gazing  with  maddened  despair  from  one 
unconscious  figure  to  the  other?  .  .  .  She  had 
dressed  them,  she  had  dragged  and  carried  them  down 
the  stairs  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Should  she  call 
for  help?  Should  she  go  crying  their  shame  and 
despair  down  the  village  street?  No!  no!  Let  no 
one  see  them.  Let  no  one  know  what  had  befallen 
them  .  .  . 

-153- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


And — listen!  Was  that  not  the  clatter  of  Uhlans 
galloping  down  the  road? 

Moaning,  staggering,  stumbling,  she  dragged  and 
carried  her  two  helpless  burdens  into  the 
woods.  .  .  . 

There,  the  next  evening  a  party  of  Belgian  Guides 
had  found  them. 


-154- 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  Vicar  of  Maylands,  the  Reverend  Ambrose  Yule, 
was  in  his  study  writing  his  monthly  contribution  to 
the  Northern  Ecclesiastical  Review.  He  was  inter- 
ested in  his  subject — "Our  Sinful  Sundays" — and  his 
thoughts  flowed  smoothly  on  the  topic  of  drink,  friv- 
olous talk  and  open  kinematograph  theatres.  He 
wrote  quickly  and  fluently  in  his  neat  small  handwrit- 
ing. A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  him. 

"Yes?     What  is  it?"    he    asked    somewhat    im- 
patiently. 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Parrot,  the  comely 
maid. 

"A  lady?     Who  is  it?     I  thought  every  one  knew 
that  I  do  not  receive  today." 

"It  is  one  of  the  foreign  ladies  staying  with  Mrs. 
Whitaker,  sir." 

"Oh,  well.     Show  her  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
tell  your  mistress." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but "  a  smile  flickered 

over  Parrot's  mild  face — "she  asked  specially  for  you. 
She  said  she  wished  to  speak  to  'Mr.  the  Clergyman' 
himself.  First  she  said,  'Mr.  the  Cury'  and  then  she 
said,  'Mr.  the  Clergyman.' ' 

-155- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


"Well,"  sighed  the  vicar,  "show  her  in."  He 
placed  a  paper-weight  on  his  neatly  written  sheets, 
rose  and  awaited  his  visitor  standing  on  the  hearthrug 
with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

Parrot  ushered  in  a  tall  figure  in  black  and  then 
withdrew.  The  vicar  stepped  forward  and  found 
himself  gazing  into  the  depths  of  two  resplendent 
dark  eyes  set  in  a  very  white  face. 

"Pray  sit  down,"  he  said,  "and  tell  me  in  what  way 
I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

"May  I  speak  French?"  asked  the  lady  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Mais  certainement,  Madame,"  said  the  courtly 
clergyman,  who  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  had  studied 
Sinful  Sundays  abroad  with  intelligence  and  atten- 
tion. 

The  lady  sat  down  and  was  silent.  She  wore  black 
cotton  gloves  and  held  in  her  hands  a  small  hand- 
kerchief, which  she  clutched  and  crumpled  nervously 
into  a  little  ball. 

The  kindly  vicar  with  his  head  on  one  side  waited  a 
little  while  and  then  spoke.  "You  are  staying  in 
Maylands?  In  Mrs.  Whitaker's  house,  I  believe? 
Have  I  not  seen  you,  with  two  young  girls?" 

"Yes.  My  daughter  and  my  sister-in-law." 
Louise's  voice  was  so  low  that  he  had  to  bend  forward 
to  catch  her  words. 

"Indeed.  Yes."  The  vicar  joined  his  finger-tips 
-156- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


together,  then  disjoined  them,  then  clapped  them 
lightly  together,  waiting  for  further  enlightenment. 
As  it  was  not  forthcoming  he  inquired:  "May  I  know 
your  name,  Madame?" 

"Louise  Brandes." 

"And  .  .  .  er — monsieur    your    husband ?" 

the  vicar's  face  was  interrogative  and  prepared  for 
sympathy. 

"He  is  wounded,  in  hospital,  at  Dunkirk." 

"Sad,  sad,"  said  the  vicar,  gently  shaking  his  hand- 
some grey  head.  "And  .  .  .  you  wish  me  to  help 
you  to  go  and  see  him?" 

"No!"  Louise  uttered  the  word  like  a  cry.  Sud- 
den tears  welled  up  into  her  eyes,  rolled  rapidly  down 
her  cheeks  and  dropped  upon  her  folded  hands  in 
their  black  cotton  gloves. 

"Alors?  .  .  ."  interrogated  the  vicar,  with  his  head 
still  more  on  one  side. 

Louise  raised  her  dark  lashes  and  looked  at  the 
kind  handsome  face  before  her,  looked  at  the  nar- 
row benevolent  forehead,  the  firm  straight  lips,  the 
beautiful  hands  (the  vicar  knew  they  were  beautiful 
hands)  with  the  finger-tips  lightly  pressed  together. 
Instinctively  she  felt  that  here  she  would  find  no  help. 
She  knew  that  if  she  asked  for  pity,  for  protection,  for 
money,  it  would  be  given  her.  But  she  also  knew  that 
what  she  was  about  to  crave  would  meet  with  a  stern 
repulse. 

-157- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  this  was  to  be  her 
last  appeal  for  help,  her  last  effort  to  obtain  release. 
He  was  the  priest,  he  was  the  representative  of  the 
All-Merciful  .  .  . 

She  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  she  dropped  on  her 
knees  and  grasped  his  hand.  "Mon  pere,"  she  said — 
thus  she  used  to  address  the  Cure  of  Bomal,  butchered 
on  that  never-to-be-forgotten  night.  "I  will  tell 
you " 

The  vicar  withdrew  his  hand  from  her  grasp.  "I 
beg  you,  madam,  not  to  address  me  in  that  way. 
Also  pray  rise  from  your  knees  and  take  a  seat."  Ah 
me!  how  melodramatic  were  the  Latin  races!  Poor 
woman!  as  if  all  this  were  necessary  in  order, 
probably,  to  ask  for  a  few  pounds,  or  to  say  that  she 
could  not  get  on  with  the  peppery  Mrs.  Whitaker. 

Louise  had  blushed  crimson  and  risen  quickly  to 
her  feet.  "I  am  sorry,"  she  said. 

And  then  the  kind  vicar  blushed  too  and  felt  that 
he  had  behaved  like  a  brute. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Yule  en- 
tered the  room.  With  her  was  Dr.  Reynolds,  carrying 
a  black  leather  bag. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Yule,  catching  sight  of 
Louise.  "I  am  sorry,  Ambrose.  I  did  not  know  you 
had  a  visitor." 

"All  right,  dear,"  said  the  vicar;  "this  is  Madame 
Brandes,  who  is  staying  with  the  Whitakers.  She 

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wants  to  consult  me  on  some  personal  matter."  Then 
he  turned  to  Dr.  Reynolds.  "Well,  doctor;  how  do 
you  find  our  boy?" 

"Quite  all  right.  Quite  all  right,"  said  the  doctor. 
"We  shall  have  him  up  and  playing  football  again  in 
no  time.  It  is  nothing  but  a  strained  tendon.  Abso- 
lutely nothing  at  all." 

Mrs.  Yule  had  gone  towards  Louise  with  out- 
stretched hand.  "How  do  you  do?  I  am  glad  to 
meet  you,"  she  said  cordially.  "You  will  stay  for  tea 
with  us,  I  hope.  My  daughter,  too,  will  be  so  pleased 
to  see  you.  Not" — she  added,  with  a  little  break  in 
her  voice — "that  she  really  can  see  you.  Perhaps 
you  have  heard  that  my  dear  daughter  is  blind." 

"Blind!"  Like  a  tidal  wave  the  sorrow  of  the 
world  seemed  to  overwhelm  Louise.  She  felt  that 
the  sadness  of  life  was  too  great  to  be  borne. 
"Blind,"  she  said.  Then  she  covered  her  face  and 
burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  Yule's  maternal  heart  melted;  her  maternal 
eyes  noted  the  broken  attitude,  the  tell-tale  line  of  the 
figure!  she  stepped  quickly  forward,  holding  out 
both  her  hands. 

"Come,  my  dear;  sit  down.  Will  you  let  me  take 
your  hat  off?  This  English  weather  is  so  trying  if 
one  is  not  used  to  it,"  murmured  Mrs.  Yule  with 
Anglo-Saxon  shyness  before  the  stranger's  unexpected 
display  of  feeling,  while  the  two  men  turned  away  and 

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talked  together  near  the  window.  Mrs.  Yule  pressed 
Louise's  black-gloved  hand  in  hers.  What  though 
this  outburst  were  due,  as  it  probably  was,  to  the 
woman's  condition,  to  her  overwrought  nerves,  or  to 
who  knows  what  grief  and  misery  of  her  own?  The 
fact  remained — and  Mrs.  Yule  never  forgot  it — that 
this  storm  of  tears  was  evoked  by  the  news  of  her  dear 
child's  affliction.  Mrs.  Yule's  heart  was  touched. 

"You  are  Belgian,  I  know,"  she  said  in  French,  sit- 
ting down  beside  Louise  and  taking  one  of  the  black- 
gloved  hands  in  her  own.  "I  myself  was  at  school  in 
Brussels."  And  indeed  her  French  was  perfect,  with 
just  a  little  touch  of  Walloon  closing  the  vowels  in 
some  of  her  words.  "I  would  have  called  on  you 
long  ago — I  would  have  asked  you  to  make  friends 
with  my  daughter  whose  affliction  has  so  distressed 
your  kind  heart ;  but  as  you  may  have  heard,  my  boy 
met  with  an  accident,  and  I  have  not  left  the  house  for 
many  days  ...  Do  wait  a  moment,  Dr.  Reynolds," 
she  added  as  the  doctor  approached  to  bid  her  good- 
bye. And  turning  to  Louise  she  introduced  him  to 
her  as  "the  kindest  of  friends  and  the  best  of  doc- 
tors." 

"We  have  met,"  said  Dr.  Reynolds,  shaking  hands 
with  Louise  and  looking  keenly  into  her  face  with  his 
piercing,  short-sighted  eyes.  "Madame  Brandes's  lit- 
tle daughter,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mrs.  Yule,  "is  a 
patient  of  mine."  There  was  a  moment's  silence; 

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then  the  doctor,  turning  to  the  vicar,  added  in  a  lower 
voice:  "It  seems  that  their  home  was  invaded,  and 
the  child  terribly  frightened.  It  is  a  very  sad  case. 
She  has  lost  her  reason  and  her  power  of  speech." 

Mrs.  Yule  in  her  turn  was  deeply  moved  and  quick 
tears  of  sympathy  gathered  in  her  eyes.  With  an  im- 
pulse of  tenderest  pity  she  bent  suddenly  forward  and 
kissed  the  exile's  pale  cheek. 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  night,  it  was  revealed 
to  Louise  that  now  or  never  she  must  make  her  con- 
fession, now  or  never  attempt  a  supreme,  ultimate  ef- 
fort. This  must  be  her  last  struggle  for  life.  As 
she  looked  from  Mrs.  Yule's  kind,  tear-filled  eyes  to 
the  calm,  keen  face  of  the  physician  hope  bounded 
within  her  like  a  living  thing.  The  blood  rushed  to 
her  cheeks  and  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Doctor!  .  .  ."  she  gasped.  Then  she  turned  to 
Mrs.  Yule  again,  it  seemed  almost  easier  to  say  what 
must  be  said,  to  a  woman.  "I  want  to  say  something 
...  I  must  speak  .  .  ."  And  again  turning  to  the 
doctor — "Do  you  understand  me  if  I  speak  French?" 

Doctor  Reynolds  looked  rather  like  a  timid  school- 
boy, notwithstanding  his  spectacles  and  his  red  beard, 
as  he  replied:  "Oh  .  .  .  out,  Madame.  Je  corn- 
prong:' 

The  vicar  stepped  forward.  Looking  from  Louise 
to  his  wife  and  to  the  doctor  he  said:  "Perhaps  I 
had  better  leave  you  .  .  ." 

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But  Louise  quickly  extended  a  trembling  hand. 
"No!  Please  stay,"  she  pleaded.  "You  are  a  priest. 
You  are  the  doctor  of  the  soul.  And  my  soul  is  sick 
unto  death." 

The  vicar  took  her  extended  hand.  "I  shall  be 
honoured  by  your  confidence,"  he  said  in  courtly 
fashion,  and  seating  himself  beside  her  waited  for 
her  to  speak. 

Nor  did  he  wait  in  vain.  In  eloquent  passionate 
words,  in  the  burning  accents  of  her  own  language, 
the  story  of  her  martyrdom  was  revealed,  her  torn 
and  outraged  soul  laid  bare. 

In  that  quiet  room  in  the  old-fashioned  English 
vicarage  the  ghastly  scenes  of  butchery  and  debauch 
were  enacted  again;  the  foul  violence  of  the  enemy, 
the  treason,  the  drunkenness,  the  ribaldry  of  the  men 
who  with  "mud  and  blood"  on  their  feet,  had  trampled 
on  these  women's  souls — all  lived  before  the  horrified 
listeners,  and  the  martyrdom  of  the  three  helpless  vic- 
tims wrung  their  honest  British  hearts. 

Louise  had  risen  to  her  feet —  a  long  black  figure 
with  a  spectral  face.  She  was  Tragedy  itself;  she 
was  the  Spirit  of  Womanhood  crushed  and  ruined  by 
the  war;  she  was  the  Grief  of  the  World. 

And  now  she  flung  herself  at  the  doctor's  feet,  her 
arms  outstretched,  her  eyes  starting  from  their  orbits, 
imploring  him,  in  a  paroxysm  of  agony  and  despair, 
to  release  and  save  her. 

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She  fell  face-downwards  at  his  feet,  shaken  with 
spasmodic  sobs,  writhing  and  quaking  as  if  in  the 
throes  of  an  epileptic  fit.  Mrs.  Yule  and  the  doctor 
raised  her  and  placed  her  tenderly  on  the  couch. 
Water  and  vinegar  were  brought,  and  wet  cloths  laid 
on  her  forehead. 

There  followed  a  prolonged  silence. 

"Unhappy  woman!"  murmured  the  vicar,  aghast. 
"Her  mind  is  quite  unhinged." 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor;  but  he  said  it  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone,  his  experienced  eye  taking  in  every  detail 
of  the  tense  figure  still  thrilled  and  shaken  at  intervals 
by  a  convulsive  tremor.  "Yes,  undoubtedly.  She  is 
on  the  verge  of  insanity."  He  paused.  Then  he 
looked  the  vicar  full  in  the  face.  "And  unless  she  is 
promptly  assisted  she  will  probably  become  hope- 
lessly and  incurably  insane." 

A  low  cry  escaped  Mrs.  Yule's  lips.  "Oh,  hush!" 
she  said,  bending  over  the  pallid  woman  on  the  couch, 
fearful  lest  the  appalling  verdict  might  have  reached 
her.  But  Louise's  weary  spirit  had  slipped  away  into 
unconsciousness. 

"A  sad  case — a  terribly  sad  case,"  said  the  vicar, 
thoughtfully  pushing  up  his  clipped  grey  moustache 
with  his  finger-tips  and  avoiding  the  doctor's  resolute 
gaze.  "She  shall  have  our  earnest  prayers." 

"And  our  very  best  assistance,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. 

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As  if  the  words  of  comfort  had  reached  her,  Louise 
sighed  and  opened  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Yule's  protecting  arm  went  round  her. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Yule  to  the  doc- 
tor. Then  he  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by  the 
couch,  looking  down  at  Louise.  "You  will  be  brave, 
will  you  not?  You  must  not  give  way  to  despair. 
We  are  all  here  to  help  and  comfort  you." 

Louise  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  looked  up 
at  him.  A  dazzling  light  of  hope  illuminated  her 
face.  Mr.  Yule  continued  gravely  and  kindly. 

"You  can  rely  upon  our  friendship — nay,  more 
— upon  our  tenderest  affection.  Our  home  is  open  to 
you  if,  as  is  most  probable,  Mrs.  Whitaker  desires  you 
to  leave  her  house.  My  wife  and  daughter  will  nurse 
and  comfort  you,  will  honour  and  respect  you — 
Louise  broke  into  low  sobs  of  gratitude  as  she 
grasped  Mrs.  Yule's  hand  and  raised  it  to  her  lips. 

"And  in  the  hour "  the  vicar  drew  himself  up  to 

his  full  height  and  spoke  in  louder,  more  impressive 
tones — "and  in  the  hour  of  your  supreme  ordeal,  you 
shall  not  be  forsaken." 

Louise  rose,  vacillating,  to  her  feet.  "What  .  .  . 
what  do  you  mean?"  she  gasped.  Her  countenance 
was  distorted;  her  eyes  burned  like  black  torches  in 
her  ashen  face. 

"I  mean,"  declared  the  clergyman,  his  stern  eyes 
fixed  relentlessly,  almost  threateningly,  upon  the 

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trembling  woman,  "I  mean  that  whatever  you  may 
have  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  iniquitous,  you  have 
no  right" — he  raised  his  hand  and  his  resonant  voice 
shook  with  the  vehemence  of  his  feeling — "no  right 
yourself  to  contemplate  a  crime." 

A  deep  silence  held  the  room.  The  sacerdotal  au- 
thority wielded  its  powerful  sway. 

"A  crime!  a  crime!"  gasped  Louise,  and  the  con- 
vulsive tremor  seized  her  anew.  "Surely  it  is  a 
greater  crime  to  drive  me  to  my  death." 

"The  laws  of  nature  are  sacred,"  said  the  vicar,  his 
brow  flushing,  a  diagonal  vein  starting  out  upon  it; 
"they  may  not  be  set  aside.  All  you  can  do  is  humbly 
to  submit  to  the  Divine  law." 

Louise  raised  her  wild  white  face  and  gazed  at  him 
helplessly,  but  Dr.  Reynolds  stepped  forward  and 
stood  beside  her.  "My  dear  Yule,"  he  said  gravely, 
"do  not  let  us  talk  about  Divine  law  in  connection  with 
this  unhappy  woman's  plight.  We  all  know  that 
every  law,  both  human  and  Divine,  has  been  violated 
and  trampled  upon  by  the  foul  fiends  that  this  war  has 
let  loose." 

The  vicar  turned  upon  him  a  face  flushed  with  in- 
dignation. "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  would 
justify  an  act  which  is  nothing  less  than  mur- 
der?" 

The  doctor  made  no  reply  and  the  vicar  looked  at 
him,  aghast. 

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"Reynolds,  my  good  friend!  You  do  not  mean  to 
tell  me  that  you  would  dare  to  intervene?" 

Still  the  doctor  was  silent.  Louise,  her  ashen  lips 
parted,  her  wild  eyes  fixed  upon  the  two  men,  awaited 
her  sentence. 

"I  can  come  to  no  hasty  decision,"  said  the  man  of 
science  at  last.  "But  if  on  further  thought  I  decide 
that  it  is  my  duty — as  a  man  and  a  physician — to  in- 
terrupt the  course  of  events,  I  shall  do  so."  He 
paused  an  instant  while  his  eye  studied  the  haggard 
face  and  trembling  figure  of  Louise.  "A  priori"  he 
added,  "this  woman's  mental  and  physical  condition 
would  seem  to  justify  me  in  fulfilling  her  wish." 

"Ah!"  It  was  a  cry  of  delirious  joy  from  Louise. 
She  was  tearing  her  dress  from  her  throat,  gasping, 
catching  her  breath,  shaken  with  frenzied  sobs  in  a 
renewed  spasm  of  hysteria. 

They  had  to  lift  her  to  the  couch  again.  The  doc- 
tor hurriedly  dissolved  two  or  three  tablets  of 
some  sedative  drug  and  forced  the  beverage  through 
Louise's  clenched  teeth.  Then  he  sat  down  beside 
her,  holding  her  thin  wrist  in  his  fingers.  Soon  he 
felt  the  disordered  intermittent  pulse  beat  more 
rhythmically;  he  felt  the  tense  muscles  slacken,  the 
quivering  nerves  relax. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  vicar,  who  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  room  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  dreary 
rain-swept  garden. 

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"Yule,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  sorry  if  in  following  the 
dictates  of  my  conscience  I  lose  a  life-long  friendship 
— a  friendship  which  has  been  very  precious  to  me." 
The  vicar  neither  answered  nor  moved ;  but  Mrs.  Yule 
came  softly  across  the  room  and  stood  beside  the  doc- 
tor— the  man  who  had  healed  and  watched  over  her 
and  those  she  loved,  who  fifteen  years  before  had  so 
tenderly  laid  her  little  blind  daughter  in  her  arms. 
She  remained  at  his  side  with  flushed  cheeks,  and  her 
lips  moved  silently  as  if  in  prayer.  Her  husband 
stood  motionless,  looking  out  at  the  misty  November 
twilight. 

"Still  more  does  it  grieve  me,"  continued  the  doc- 
tor, "to  think  that  any  act  of  mine  should  wound  your 
feelings  on  a  point  of  conscience  which  evidently 
touches  you  so  deeply.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  I  must 
obey  the  dictates  of  common  humanity  which,  in  this 
case,  coincide  exactly  with  the  teachings  of  science. 
Given  the  condition  in  which  I  find  this  woman,  I  feel 
that  I  must  try  my  best  to  save  her  reason  and  her  life. 
The  chances  are  a  hundred  to  one  that  if  the  child 
lived  it  would  be  abnormal;  a  degenerate,  an  epi- 
leptic." The  doctor  stepped  near  the  couch  and 
looked  down  at  the  unconscious  Louise.  "And  as  for 
the  mother,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  pitiful  death- 
like face,  "look  at  her.  Can  you  not  see  that  she  is 
well  on  her  way  to  the  graveyard  or  the  madhouse?" 

There  was  no  reply.  In  the  silence  that  followed 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


Mrs.  Yule  drew  near  to  her  husband ;  but  he  kept  his 
face  resolutely  turned  away  and  stared  out  of  th« 
window. 

She  touched  his  arm  tremulously.  "Think,  dear," 
she  murmured,  "think  that  she  has  a  husband — whom 
she  loves,  who  is  fighting  in  the  trenches  for  her  and 
for  his  home.  When  he  returns,  will  it  not  be  terrible 
enough  for  her  to  tell  him  that  his  own  daughter  has 
lost  her  reason?  Must  she  also  go  to  meet  him  carry- 
ing the  child  of  an  enemy  in  her  arms?" 

The  vicar  did  not  answer.  He  turned  his  pale  set 
face  away  without  a  word,  and  left  the  room. 


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CHAPTER  XV 

DUSK,  the  dreary  November  dusk,  had  fallen  as  Louise 
hurried  homeward  across  the  damp  fields  and  deserted 
country  roads.  She  had  refused  Mrs.  Yule's  urgent 
offer  to  accompany  her  or  to  send  some  one  with  her. 
She  wanted  to  be  alone — alone  to  look  her  happiness 
in  the  face,  alone  with  her  new  heaven-sent  ecstasy  of 
gratitude.  After  the  nightmare-days  of  hopelessness 
and  despair,  behold !  life  was  to  be  renewed,  retrieved, 
redeemed.  Like  a  grey  cloak  of  misery  her  anguish 
fell  away  from  her;  she  stepped  forth  blissful  and  en- 
tranced into  the  pathway  of  her  reflowering  youth. 

And  with  the  certainty  of  this  deliverance  came  the 
faith  and  hope  in  all  other  joys.  Claude  would  re- 
turn to  her;  Belgium  would  be  liberated  and  re- 
deemed. Mireille  would  find  her  speech  again! 
Yes,  Mireille  would  find  her  sweet,  soft  smile 
and  her  sweet  shrill  laughter.  Might  it  not  be 
Louise's  own  gloom  that  had  plunged  the  sensitive  soul 
of  her  child  into  darkness?  Surely  now  that  the 
storm-cloud  was  to  be  lifted  from  her,  also  the  over- 
shadowed child-spirit  would  flutter  back  again  into 
the  golden  springlight  of  its  day.  Surely  all  joys 
were  possible  in  this  most  beautiful  and  joyous  world. 

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And  Louise  went  with  quick,  light  steps  through  the 
gloaming,  half-expecting  to  see  Mireille,  already 
healed,  come  dancing  towards  her,  gay  and  garrulous, 
calling  her  as  she  used  to  do  by  her  pet  name,  "Lou- 
lou!" 

Or  it  might  be  Cherie  who  would  run  to  meet  her, 
waving  her  hand  to  tell  her  that  the  miracle  had  come 
to  pass! 

Cherie!  The  name,  the  thought  of  Cherie  struck 
at  Louise's  heart  like  a  sudden  blow.  Her  quick  foot- 
steps halted.  As  if  a  gust  of  the  November  wind  had 
blown  out  the  light  of  her  happiness,  she  stood  sud- 
denly still  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  felt  that 
around  her  there  was  darkness  again. 

Cherie!  .  .  .  What  was  it  that  the  doctor  had  said 
to  her  as  he  came  with  her  to  the  gate  of  the  Vicarage, 
as  he  held  her  hand  in  his  firm,  strong  grasp,  promis- 
ing to  save  her  from  the  deep  waters  of  despair? 
What  were  the  words  she  had  then  neither  understood 
nor  answered,  borne  away  as  she  was  on  the  wave  of 
her  own  tumultuous  joy?  They  suddenly  came  back 
to  her  now;  they  suddenly  reached  her  hearing  and 
comprehension.  He  had  said,  looking  her  full  in  the 
face  with  a  meaning  gaze,  "What  about  your  sister?" 

"What  about  your  sister?"  Your  sister.  Of 
course  he  had  meant  Cherie.  What  about  her? 
What  about  her?  Again  Louise  felt  that  dull  thud  in 
her  heart  as  if  some  one  had  struck  it,  for  she  knew, 

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she  knew  what  he  meant — she  knew  what  there  was 
about  Cherie. 

There  was  the  same  abomination,  the  same  impend- 
ing horror  and  disgrace.  Had  not  Cherie  herself 
come  and  told  her,  in  bewilderment  and  simplicity,  of 
the  strange  questionings,  the  obscure  warnings  Mrs. 
Whitaker  and  the  doctor  had  subjected  her  to?  Ah, 
Louise  knew  but  too  well  what  it  all  meant;  Louise 
knew  but  too  well  what  there  was  about  Cherie  that 
even  to  strangers  was  manifest  and  unmistakable. 
Yes,  Louise  had  dreaded  it,  had  felt  it,  had  known  it — - 
though  Cherie  herself  had  not.  But  until  now  her 
own  torment  of  body  and  soul  had  hidden  all  else  from 
her  gaze,  had  made  all  that  was  not  her  own  misery 
as  unreal  and  unimportant  as  a  dream.  Vaguely,  in 
the  background  of  her  thoughts,  she  had  known  that 
there  was  still  another  disaster  to  face,  another  fiery 
ordeal  to  encounter,  but  swept  along  in  the  vortex  of 
her  own  doom  she  had  flung  those  thoughts  aside;  in 
her  own  life-and-death  struggle  she  had  not  stopped  to 
ask,  What  of  that  other  soul  driving  to  shipwreck  be- 
side her,  broken  and  submerged  by  the  selfsame 
storm? 

But  now  it  must  be  faced.  She  must  tell  the  unwit- 
ting Cherie  what  the  future  held  for  her.  She  must 
stun  her  with  the  revelation  of  her  shame. 

For  Louise  understood — however  incredible  it 
might  seem  to  others — that  Cherie  was  wholly  un- 

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aware  of  what  had  befallen  her  on  that  night  when 
terror,  inebriety,  and  violence  had  plunged  her  into 
unconsciousness.  Not  a  glimmer  of  the  truth  had 
dawned  on  her  simplicity,  not  a  breath  of  knowledge 
had  touched  her  inexperience.  Sullied  and  yet  im- 
maculate, violated  and  yet  undefiled — of  her  could  it 
indeed  be  said  that  she  had  conceived  without  sin. 

Louise  went  on  in  the  falling  darkness  with  lagging 
footsteps.  Deep  down  in  her  heart  her  happiness  hid 
its  face  for  the  sorrow  and  shame  she  must  bring  to 
another. 

Then  she  remembered — with  what  deep  thankful- 
ness!— that  though  she  must  inflict  this  hideous  hurt 
on  Cherie,  yet  she  could  also  speak  to  her  of  help,  she 
could  promise  her  release  and  the  hope  of  ultimate 
peace  and  oblivion. 

She  hurried  forward  through  the  darkening  lanes, 
and  soon  joy  awoke  again  and  sang  within  her.  Yes! 
There  they  stood  at  the  open  gate,  the  two  beloved 
waiting  figures — the  taller,  Cherie,  with  her  arm 
round  the  slender  form  of  Mireille.  Louise  ran  to- 
wards them  with  buoyant  step. 

"Louise!"  cried  Cherie.  "Where  have  you  been? 
How  quickly  you  walk!  How  bright  and  happy  you 
look!  Why,  I  could  see  your  smile  shining  from  far 
off  in  the  darkness!" 

Louise  kissed  the  soft,  cold  cheeks  of  both;  she 
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took  Cherie's  warm  hand  and  the  chilly  little  hand  of 
Mireille  and  went  with  them  towards  the  house.  How 
cheerful  were  the  lighted  windows  seen  through  the 
trees!  How  sheltered  and  peaceful  was  this  refuge! 
How  gracious  and  generous  were  the  strangers  who 
had  housed  and  nourished  them! 

How  kind  and  good  and  beautiful  was  life ! 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Louise,"  said  Cherie  that  eve- 
ning, when,  having  seen  little  Mireille  safely  asleep, 
Louise  returned  to  the  cheerful  sitting-room,  where  the 
dancing  firelight  gleamed  on  the  pink  walls  and  cosy 
drawn  curtains.  "Tell  me  the  truth.  You  have 
heard  something — something  from  Claude  .  .  . 

something "  Cherie  flushed  to  the  lovely  low  line 

of  the  growth  of  her  auburn  curls — "from  Florian! 
You  have,  you  have!  I  can  read  it  in  your  face. 
You  have  had  news  of  some  kind." 

Yes — Louise  had  had  news. 


"Good 


news- 


Yes.  Good  news.  She  sat  down  on  a  low  arm- 
chair near  the  fire  and  beckoned  with  her  finger. 
"Cherie!" 

The  girl  came  quickly  to  her  side  and  sat  down  on 
the  rug  at  her  feet.  The  fire  danced  and  flickered  on 
her  red-gold  hair  and  milkwhite  oval  face. 

"Cherie."  .  .  .  Louise's  voice  was  low,  her  eyes 
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cast  down.  She  felt  like  a  torturer,  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  murdering  a  flower,  tearing  asunder  the  closed 
petals  of  this  girlish  soul  and  filling  its  cup  with 
poison. 

Cherie  was  looking  up  into  her  face  with  a  radiant, 
expectant  smile. 

How  should  she  tell  her?  How  should  she  tell 
her?  .  .  . 

Louise  bent  forward  and  covered  the  shining, 
questioning  eyes  with  her  hand.  "Tomorrow, 
Cherie!  Tomorrow." 


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CHAPTER  XVI 

ON  the  morrow  Cherie  awoke  early.  She  could  not 
say  what  had  startled  her  out  of  a  deep  restful  slum- 
ber, but  suddenly  she  was  wide  awake,  every  nerve 
tense  in  a  kind  of  strained  expectancy,  waiting  she 
knew  not  for  what.  Something  had  occurred,  some- 
thing had  awakened  her;  and  she  was  waiting  for  it  to 
repeat  itself;  waiting  to  hear  or  feel  it  again.  But 
whatever  it  was,  sound  or  sensation,  it  was  not 
repeated. 

Cherie  rose  quickly,  slid  her  feet  into  her  slippers, 
and  went  across  the  room  to  the  window.  She  leaned 
out  with  her  bare  elbows  on  the  window-sill  and 
looked  at  the  garden — at  the  glistening  lawn,  at  the 
stripped  trees,  dark  and  clear-cut  against  the  early 
sky.  It  was  a  rose-grey  dawn,  as  softly  luminous  as 
if  it  were  the  month  of  February  instead  of  November. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  promise  of  spring  in  the  pale 
radiance  of  the  morning. 

She  knew  she  could  not  sleep  any  more;  so  she 
dressed  quietly  and  quickly,  wrapped  a  scarf  round 
her  slim  shoulders,  and  went  down  into  the  garden. 

George  Whitaker  also  had  awakened  early.  These 
were  his  last  few  days  at  home  before  leaving  for  the 

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front,  and  his  spirit  was  full  of  feverish  restlessness. 
His  sister  Eva  was  expected  back  from  Hastings  that 
morning  and  they  would  spend  two  or  three  happy 
days  together  before  he  left  for  the  wonderful,  and 
awful  adventure  of  war.  He  had  obeyed  his  mother's 
desire,  and  had  not  seen  or  spoken  to  their  Belgian 
guests  for  many  days.  Indeed,  it  was  easy — too  easy, 
thought  George  with  a  sigh — to  avoid  them,  for  they 
seemed  day  by  day  to  grow  more  shy  of  strangers  and 
of  friends.  George  only  caught  fleeting  glimpses  of 
them  as  they  passed  their  windows;  sometimes  he  saw 
a  gleam  of  auburn  hair  where  Cherie  sat  with  bent 
head  near  the  schoolroom  balcony,  reading  or  at 
work. 

This  morning,  as  he  stood  vigorously  plying  his 
brushes  on  his  bright  hair  and  gazing  absent-mind- 
edly at  the  garden,  he  caught  sight  of  Cherie,  with  a 
scarf  round  her  shoulders  and  a  book  in  her  hand, 
walking  down  the  gravel  pathway  towards  tlu  sum- 
mer-house. He  flung  down  his  brushes,  finished 
dressing  very  quickly,  and  ran  downstairs.  After  all, 
he  was  leaving  in  forty-eight  hours  or  so — leaving  to 
go  who  knows  where,  to  return  who  knows  when.  He 
might  never  have  such  another  chance  of  seeing  her 
and  saying  good-bye.  True,  it  was  rather  soon  to  say 
good-bye.  He  would  probably  be  meeting  her  every 
moment  during  the  next  two  days.  Eva  was  coming 
back,  and  would  be  sure  to  want  her  little  foreign 

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friend  always  beside  her.  Eva  had  a  way  of  slipping 
her  arm  through  Cherie's  and  drawing  her  along,  say- 
ing: "Allans,  Cherie!"  which  was  very  pleasant  in 
George's  recollection.  He  also  would  have  liked  to 
slip  his  arm  through  the  slim  white  arm  of  the  girl  and 
say,  "Allans,  Cherie!"  He  could  imagine  the  flush, 
or  the  frown,  or  the  fleeting  marvel  of  her  smile.  .  .  . 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  downstairs,  out  of  the 
house,  and  running  towards  the  summer-house.  But 
she  was  not  there. 

He  found  her  walking  slowly  beside  the  little  arti- 
ficial lake  in  the  shrubbery,  reading  her  book. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said  in  tones  exaggerately  cas- 
ual, as  she  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Good-morning,  Monsieur  George,"  she  said,  and 
the  softness  of  the  "g's"  in  her  French  accent  was 
sweet  to  his  ear. 

"What  are  you  doing,  up  so  early?" 

"Et  vous?"  she  retorted,  with  her  brief  vivid  smile. 

"I  ...  I  ...  have  come  to  say  good-bye,"  he 
said. 

"Good-bye?  Why,  I  thought  you  were  not  going 
away  until  the  day  after  tomorrow." 

"Right-o,"  said  George.  "No  more  I  am.  But 
you  know  what  a  time  I  take  over  things;  the  mater 
always  calls  me  a  slow-coach.  I — I  like  beginning  to 
pack  up  and  say  good-bye  days  and  weeks  before  it 
is  time  to  go."  Again  he  watched  the  little  half -moon 

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smile  that  turned  up  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and 
dimpled  her  rounded  cheek. 

"Well  then — good-bye,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him 
for  an  instant  and  realizing  that  she  would  be  sorry 
when  he  had  left. 

"Good-bye."  He  took  her  book  from  her  and  held 
out  his  hand.  She  placed  her  own  soft  small  hand  in 
his,  and  he  found  not  another  word  to  say.  So  he  said 
"Good-bye"  again,  and  she  repeated  it  softly. 

"But  now  you  must  go  away,"  she  said.  "You  can- 
not keep  on  saying  good-bye  and  staying  here." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  George.  "I'll  go  in  a  min- 
ute." Then  he  cleared  his  throat.  "I  wonder  if  you 
will  be  here  when  I  come  back.  I  suppose  you  would 
hate  to  live  in  England  altogether,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  never  thought  of  it,"  said 
Cherie. 

"Well— but  do  you  like  England?     Or  don't  you?" 

"S'il  vous  plait  Londres?"  quoted  Cherie,  glanc- 
ing up  at  him  and  laughing.  Surely,  thought  George, 
no  other  eyelashes  in  the  world  gave  such  a  starry  look 
to  two  such  sea-blue  eyes. 

"In  some  ways  I  do  not  like  England,"  she  re- 
marked, thoughtfully.  "I  do  not  like — I  mean  I  do 
not  understand  the  English  women.  They  seem  so — 
how  shall  I  say? — so  hard  ...  so  arid.  .  .  ."  She 
plucked  a  little  branch  from  a  bush  of  winter-berries 
and  toyed  with  it  absently  as  she  walked  beside  him. 

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"They  all  seem  afraid  of  appearing  too  friendly  or 
too  kind." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  George. 

"When  we  first  came  here  your  sister  warned  me 
about  it.  She  said,  'You  must  never  show  an  English 
woman  that  you  like  her;  it  is  not  customary,  and 
would  be  misunderstood.' ' 

"That's  so.  We  don't  approve  of  gush,"  said 
George. 

"If  you  call  nice  things  by  horrid  names  they  be- 
come horrid  things,"  said  Cherie  sternly  and  senten- 
tiously.  "Natural  impulses  of  friendliness  are  not 
'gush.'  When  I  first  meet  strangers  I  always  feel  that 
I  like  them;  and  I  go  on  liking  them  until  I  find  out 
that  they  are  not  nice." 

"You  go  the  wrong  way  round,"  said  George.  "In 
England  we  always  dislike  people  until  we  know  they 
are  all  right.  Besides,  if  you  were  to  start  by  being 
sweet  and  amiable  to  strangers,  they  would  probably 
think  you  wanted  to  borrow  money  from  them,  or  ask 
them  favours." 

"How  mean-minded!"  exclaimed  Cherie. 

George  laughed.  "You  should  see  the  mater,"  he 
said,  "how  villainously  rude  she  is  to  people  she 
meets  for  the  first  time.  That  is  what  makes  her  such 
a  social  success." 

Cherie  looked  bewildered.  George  was  silent  a 
moment;  then  he  spoke  again. 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


"And  what  do  you  think  about  the  English  men? 
Do  you  dislike  them  too?" 

"I  don't  really  know  them,"  said  Cherie;  "but  they 
— they  look  very  nice,"  and  she  turned  her  blue  eyes 
full  upon  him,  taking  a  quick  survey  of  his  handsome 
figure  and  fair,  frank  face. 

George  felt  himself  blush,  and  hated  himself  for  it. 

"You — you  would  never  think  of  marrying  an  Eng- 
lishman, would  you?" 

Cherie  shook  her  head,  and  the  long  lashes  drooped 
over  the  sea-blue  stars.  "I  am  affianced  to  be  mar- 
ried," she  said  with  her  pretty  foreign  accent,  "to  a 
soldier  of  Belgium." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  George  rather  huskily  and  hur- 
riedly. "Of  course.  Quite  so." 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  little  while. 
Then  he  opened  her  book,  which  he  still  held  in  his 
hand.  "What  were  you  reading?  Poetry?" 

He  glanced  at  the  fly-leaf,  on  which  were  written  the 
words  "Florian  Audet,  a  Cherie"  and  he  quickly 
turned  the  page.  "Poetry"  ...  he  said  again,  "by 
Victor  Hugo."  Then  he  added,  "Why,  this  sounds  as 
if  it  were  written  for  you:  'Elle  etait  pale  et  pourtant 
rose.  .  .  .'  That  is  just  what  you  are." 

Cherie  did  not  answer.  What  was  this  strange  flut- 
ter at  her  heart  again?  It  frightened  her.  Could  it 
be  angina  pectoris,  or  some  other  strange  and  ter- 

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rible  disease?     Not  that  it  hurt  her;  but  it  thrilled  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

"You  are  quite  pale  et  pourtant  rose  at  this  very 
moment,"  repeated  George,  looking  at  her.  Then  he 
added  rather  bitterly  as  he  handed  her  back  the  book, 
"I  suppose  you  are  thinking  of  the  day  when  you  will 
marry  your  soldier-lover." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  not  live  to  marry  anybody,"  said 
Cherie  in  a  low  voice. 

"What  an  idea!"  exclaimed  George. 

"And  as  for  him,"  she  continued,  "he  will  probably 
be  killed  long  before  that." 

"Oh  no,"  said  George,  "Fm  sure  he  won't.  And 
I'm  sure  you  will.  .  .  .  And  I'm  sure  you're  both  go- 
ing to  be  awfully  happy.  As  for  me,"  he  added 
quickly,  "I  am  going  to  have  no  end  of  a  good  time. 
I  believe  I  am  to  be  sent  to  the  Dardanelles.  Doesn't 
the  word  sound  jolly!  'The  Dardanelles!'  It  has  a 
ring  and  a  lilt  to  it.  .  .  ."  He  laughed  and  pushed 
his  hair  back  from  his  clear  young  forehead. 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  said  Cherie,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  sudden  feeling  of  kindness  and  regret. 

They  had  turned  back,  and  were  now  passing  the 
summer-house  in  full  view  of  the  windows  of  the 
house.  On  the  schoolroom  balcony  they  saw  Louise. 
She  beckoned,  and  Cherie  hurried  forward  and  stood 
under  the  balcony,  looking  up  at  her. 

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"Oh,  Cherie!  I  wondered  where  you  were,"  said 
Louise,  bending  over  the  ledge.  "I  was  anxious. 
Come  up,  dear!  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"Oh  yes!"  exclaimed  Cherie  eagerly,  remembering 
Louise's  promise  of  the  night  before.  Then  she 
turned  to  George.  "I  must  go.  So  now  we  must 
really  say  good-bye."  She  laughed.  "Or  shall  we 
say  au  revoir?" 

"Let  us  say  au  revoir"  said  George,  looking  her 
full  in  the  face. 

"Au  revoir,  Monsieur  George!     Au  revoir!" 

Then  she  went  indoors. 

Two  days  later  George  Whitaker  went  away. 
They  sent  him  to  the  Dardanelles. 
And  in  this  world  there  was  never  an  au  revoir 
for  Monsieur  George. 


-182- 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LOUISE  stood  in  the  doorway  waiting  for  Cherie,  and 
watched  her  coming  up  the  stairs  rather  slowly  with 
fluttering  breath.  She  drew  her  into  the  room  and 
shut  the  door. 

Mireille  sat  quietly  in  her  usual  armchair  by  the 
window,  with  her  small  face  lifted  to  the  sky. 

"Cherie,"  said  Louise,  drawing  the  girl  down  beside 
her  on  the  wide  old  divan  on  which  the  little  Whit- 
akers  had  sprawled  to  learn  their  lessons  in  years 
gone  by.  "I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"I  knew  you  had,"  exclaimed  Cherie,  flushing.  "I 
knew  it  yesterday  when  I  saw  you.  It  is  good  news!" 

Louise  hesitated.  "Yes  .  .  .  for  me,"  she  said 
falteringly,  "it  is  good  news.  For  you,  my  dear  little 
sister,  for  you  .  .  .  unless  you  realize  what  has  be- 
fallen us — it  may  be  very  terrible  news." 

Cherie  looked  at  her  with  startled  eyes.  "What 
do  you  mean?"  she  asked  under  her  breath. 

Louise  put  her  hand  to  her  neck  as  if  something 
were  choking  her.  Her  throat  was  dry;  she  could  find 
neither  words  nor  voice  in  which  to  give  to  the  waiting 
girl  her  message  of  twofold  shame. 

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"Cherie  .  .  .  my  darling  ...  I  must  speak  to 
you  about  that  night  .  .  .  your  birthday-night— 

Cherie  started  back.  "No!"  she  cried.  "You  said 
when  we  came  here  that  we  were  to  forget  it — that  it 
was  a  dream!  Why — why  should  you  speak  of  it 
again?" 

"Cherie,"  said  Louise  in  a  low  voice,  "perhaps  for 
you"  .  .  .  She  faltered,  "for  you  it  may  have  been 
a  dream.  But  not  for  me." 

The  girl  sat  straight  upright,  tense  and  alert. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Louise?" 

"I  mean  that  for  me  that  night  has  borne  its  evil 
fruit.  Cherie!  I  thought  of  killing  myself.  But 
yesterday  ...  I  spoke  to  Dr.  Reynolds.  He  has 
promised  to  save  me." 

"To  save  you!"  gasped  Cherie.  "Louise!  Louise! 
Are  you  so  ill?" 

"My  darling,  my  own  dear  child,  I  am  worse  than 
ill.  But  there  is  help  for  me;  I  shall  be  saved — saved 
from  dishonour  and  despair."  She  lowered  her 
voice.  "Cherie!" — her  voice  fell  so  low  that  it  could 
hardly  be  heard  by  the  trembling  girl  beside  her — 
"can  you  not  understand?  The  shame  I  am  called 
upon  to  face — the  doom  that  awaits  me — is  matern- 
ity." 

Maternity!  Slowly,  as  if  an  unseen  force  uplifted 
her,  Cherie  had  risen  to  her  feet.  Maternity!  .  .  . 
The  veil  of  the  mystery  was  rent,  the  wonder  was  re- 

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vealed!  Maternity!  That  was  the  key  to  all  her 
own  strange  and  marvellous  sensations,  to  the  throb 
and  the  thrill  within  her!  Maternity. 

She  stood  motionless,  amazed.  A  shaft  of  sunlight 
from  the  open  window  beat  upon  her,  turning  her 
hair  to  gold  and  her  wide  eyes  to  pools  of  wondering 
light.  Such  wonder  and  such  light  were  about  her 
that  Louise  gazed  in  awed  silence  at  the  ethereal  fig- 
ure, standing  with  pale  hands  extended  and  virginal 
face  upturned. 

She  seemed  to  be  listening.  ...  To  what  voice? 
What  annunciation  did  she  barken  to  with  those  rapt 
eyes? 

Louise  called  her  by  her  name.  But  Cherie  did  not 
answer.  Her  lips  were  mute,  her  eyes  were  distant 
and  unseeing.  She  heard  no  other  voice  but  a  child- 
voice  asking  from  her  the  gift  of  life. 

And  to  that  voice  her  trembling  spirit  answered. 


-185- 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DR.  REYNOLDS  kept  his  promise  to  Louise. 

In  a  private  nursing-home  in  London  the  deed  of 
mercy  and  of  ruthlessness  was  accomplished.  The 
pitiable  spark  of  life  was  quenched. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  darkness  and  despair  Louise, 
after  wavering  for  many  days  on  the  threshold  of 
death,  came  slowly  back  to  life  once  more. 

During  the  many  weeks  she  was  in  the  nursing- 
home  she  saw  neither  Cherie  nor  Mireille;  but  Mrs. 
Yule  came  nearly  every  day  and  brought  good  news 
of  them  both,  saying  how  happy  she  and  her  husband 
were  to  have  them  at  the  Vicarage. 

For  Mr.  Yule  himself  had  gone  to  the  Whitakers' 
house,  an  hour  after  Louise  had  left  it  with  Dr.  Rey- 
nolds, and  had  taken  the  two  forlorn  young  creatures 
away.  Their  stricken  youth  found  shelter  in  his 
house,  where  Mireille's  affliction  and  Cherie's  tragic 
condition  were  alike  sacred  to  his  generous  heart. 

The  little  blind  girl,  Lilian,  adored  them  both.  She 
used  to  sit  between  them — often  resting  her  face 
against  Mireille's  ann,  or  holding  the  child's  hand  in 
hers — listening  to  Cherie's  tales  of  their  childhood  in 
Belgium.  She  was  never  tired  of  hearing  about 

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Cherie's  school-days  at  Mademoiselle  Thibaut's  pen- 
sionnat;  of  her  trips  to  Brussels  and  Antwerp,  and 
the  horrors  of  the  dungeons  of  Chateau  Steen;  of  her 
bicycle-lessons  on  the  sands  of  Westende  under  the 
instruction  of  the  monkey-man;  and  above  all  of  her 
visits  to  Braine  1'Alleude  and  the  battle-field  of  Water- 
loo, where  she  had  actually  drunk  coffee  in  Welling- 
ton's sitting-room,  and  rested  in  his  very  own  arm- 
chair. .  .  . 

Lilian,  with  her  closed  eyes  and  intent  face — always 
turned  slightly  upward  as  if  yearning  towards  the 
light — listened  eagerly,  exclaiming  every  now  and 
then  with  a  little  excited  laugh,  "I  see  ...  I  see. 
.  .  ."  And  those  words  and  the  sweet  expression  of 
the  small  ecstatic  face  made  Cherie's  voice  falter  and 
the  tears  suffuse  her  eyes. 

One  day  a  letter  came.  It  was  from  Claude.  He 
had  almost  completely  recovered  from  his  wound  and 
was  leaving  the  hospital  in  Dunkirk  to  go  to  the  front 
again.  He  sent  all  his  love  and  all  God's  blessings 
to  Louise  and  to  his  little  Mireille  and  to  Cherie. 
They  would  meet  again  in  the  happier  days  soon  to 
come.  Had  they  news  of  Florian?  The  last  he  had 
heard  of  him  was  a  card  from  the  trenches  at 
Loos.  .  .  . 

And  that  same  day — a  snowy  day  in  December — 
Louise  at  length  returned  from  her  ordeal  and  stood, 
a  pale  and  ghostly  figure,  at  the  Vicarage  door.  To 

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her  also  it  opened  wide,  and  her  faltering  footsteps 
were  led  with  love  and  tenderness  to  the  firelight  of 
the  hospitable  hearth. 

There  in  the  vicar's  leather  armchair,  with  the 
vicar's  favourite  collie  curled  at  her  feet,  sat  Mireille; 
her  soft  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  tied  with  a  hlue 
ribbon  by  Mrs.  Yule;  a  gold  bangle,  given  her  by 
Lilian,  on  her  slim  wrist.  With  a  cry  of  joy  and  grat- 
itude Louise  knelt  before  her,  kissing  the  soft  chill 
hands,  the  silent  mouth,  the  eyes  that  did  not  recog- 
nize her. 

"Mireille,  Mireille!  Can  you  not  say  a  word  to 
me?  Not  a  word?  Say,  'Welcome,  mother!'  Say 
it,  darling!  Say,  'Afamara,  bonjour' ' 

But  the  child's  lips  remained  closed;  the  singing 
fountain  of  her  voice  was  sealed. 

The  door  opened,  and  Cherie  entered  the  room — a 
Cherie  altered  and  strange  in  her  new  and  tragic 
dignity. 

Louise  involuntarily  drew  back,  gazing  in  amaze- 
ment at  the  significant  change  of  form  and  feature; 
then  with  a  sob  of  passionate  pity  she  went  to  her 
and  folded  her  in  her  arms. 

Cherie,  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  bowed  her  head 
upon  Louise's  breast. 


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CHAPTER  XIX 

To  see  Christmas  in  an  English  vicarage  is  to  see 
Christmas  indeed;  and  the  love  and  charity  and 
beauty  of  it  sank  deeply  into  the  exiles'  wounded 
hearts. 

But  one  day  came  the  summons  to  return  to 
Belgium.  It  was  a  peremptory  order  from  the  Ger- 
man Governor  of  Brussels  to  all  owners  of  house  or 
property  to  return  to  their  country  with  the  least  pos- 
sible delay.  The  penalty  of  disregarding  this  sum- 
mons would  be  the  confiscation  of  all  and  any  prop- 
erty owned  by  them  in  Belgium. 

Louise  stood  in  Cherie's  room  with  the  open  letter 
in  her  hand,  aghast  and  trembling. 

"To  return  to  Belgium?  They  ask  us  to  return  to 
Belgium?"  Louise  could  scarcely  pronounce  the 
words.  "Do  you  realize  what  it  means,  Cherie?" 

"It  means — going  home,"  whispered  the  girl,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  a  delicate  flush  mounting  to  her 
pale  cheeks. 

"Home!  Do  you  remember  what  that  home  was 
when  we  left  it?"  cried  Louise,  her  eyes  blazing  at 
the  recollection. 

"No,"  said  Cherie,  "I  do  not  remember." 
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"Home!  Home  without  Claude — without  Florian! 
with  half  our  friends  killed  or  lost  .  .  ."  cried 
Louise,  and  the  easy  tears  of  weakness  flowed  down 
her  thin  cheeks.  "Home — with  Mireille  a  silent 
ghost,  and  you — and  you — "  Her  dark  passionate 
eyes  lit  for  an  instant  on  the  figure  of  her  sister-in-law, 
and  horror  and  shame  seemed  to  grip  at  her  throat. 
"Let  us  never  speak  of  it  again." 

And  she  flung  the  paper  into  the  fire. 

But  the  memory  of  it  she  could  not  fling  away. 
The  possibility  of  returning  to  Belgium,  which  before 
had  seemed  so  remote,  the  idea  of  seeing  their  home 
again  which  they  had  deemed  lost  to  them  for  ever, 
now  filled  her  mind  and  Cherie's  to  the  exclusion  of 
every  other  thought.  That  harsh  call  to  return  rang 
in  their  hearts  by  day  and  by  night,  awakening  home- 
sickness and  desire. 

At  night  Louise  would  dream  a  thousand  times  of 
that  return,  a  thousand  times  putting  the  idea  from 
her  with  indignation  and  with  fear.  Every  night  she 
would  imagine  herself  arriving  at  Bomal,  hurrying 
through  the  village  streets  to  the  gate  of  her  house, 
entering  it,  going  up  the  stairs,  opening  the  door  to 
Claude's  study.  .  .  . 

Little  by  little  home-sickness  wound  itself  like  a 
serpent  about  her  heart,  crushing  her  in  its  strong 
spirals,  poisoning  with  its  virulent  fang  every  hour 
of  her  day.  Little  by  little  the  nostalgic  yearning,  the 

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unutterable  longing  to  hear  her  own  language,  to  be 
among  her  own  people — though  tortured,  though  op- 
pressed, though  crushed  by  the  invader's  heel — grew 
in  her  heart  until  she  felt  that  she  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  The  sense  of  exile  became  intolerable;  the 
sound  of  English  voices,  the  sight  of  English  faces, 
hurt  and  oppressed  her;  the  thought  of  the  wild 
English  waters  separating  her  from  her  woeful  land 
seemed  to  freeze  and  drown  her  heart. 

A  week  after  she  had  told  Cherie  never  to  speak 
about  it  any  more  she  thought  of  nothing  else,  she 
dreamed  of  nothing  else,  but  to  return  to  her  home, 
her  wrecked  and  devastated  home,  there  to  await 
Claude  in  hope,  in  patience,  and  in  prayer. 

She  would  feel  nearer  to  him  when  once  the  icy, 
tumbling  waves  of  the  Channel  separated  them  no 
more.  She  would  be  ready  for  him  when  the  day  of 
deliverance  c^me,  the  day  of  Belgium's  freedom  and 
redemption — surely,  surely  now  it  could  not  be  far 
off!  Claude  would  find  her  there,  in  her  place,  wait- 
ing for  him.  She  would  see  him  from  afar  off,  she 
would  be  at  the  door  to  meet  him  as  she  always  was 
when  he  had  gone  away  even  for  a  few  days  or 
hours.  His  little  Mireille,  alas!  was  stricken,  but 
might  she  not  before  then  recover?  His  sister — ah! 
His  sister!  .  .  .  Louise  wrung  her  hands  and  wept. 

Late  one  night  she  went  to  Cherie's  room.  She 
opened  the  door  very  gently  so  as  not  to  wake  her  if 

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she  were  asleep.  But  Cherie  was  sitting  near  the  fire 
bending  over  some  needlework  and  singing  softly  to 
herself.  She  jumped  up,  blushing  deeply,  as  Louise 
entered,  and  she  attempted  to  hide  her  work  in  her 
lap.  It  was  an  infant's  white  cape  she  was  embroid- 
ering, and  as  Louise  saw  it  her  own  pale  cheeks  flushed 
too. 

"Cherie,"  she  faltered,  "I  have  been  thinking  .  .  . 
what  if  we  went  home?" 

"Yes,"  said  Cherie  quietly,  with  the  chastened 
calmness  of  those  whose  mission  it  is  to  wait. 

"Let  us  go,  let  us  go,"  said  Louise.  "We  will  make 
our  house  ready  and  beautiful  for  those  who  will 
return." 

"Yes,"  said  Cherie,  again. 

"They  will  return  and  find  us  there  .  .  .  waiting 
for  them  .  .  .  even  though  the  storm  has  passed  over 
us.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob.  "Mireille  will 
recover,  I  know  it,  I  feel  it!  And  you — oh,  Cherie!" 
— she  dropped  on  her  knees  before  the  trembling 
girl — "you,  you  will  be  brave,"  she  cried  passion- 
ately, "before  it  is  too  late  .  .  .  Cherie,  Cherie,  I 
implore  you  .  .  ." 

Cherie  was  silent.  It  was  as  if  she  did  not  hear. 
It  was  as  if  she  did  not  understand. 

In  vain  Louise  spoke  of  the  shame  of  the  past,  of 
the  woe  and  misery  of  the  future.  To  all  her  wild 
words,  to  her  caresses  and  entreaties,  Cherie  gave  no 

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reply.  Her  lips  seemed  mute,  her  eyes  seemed  dis- 
tant and  unseeing  as  those  of  the  mindless,  wandering 
Mireille. 

At  last  she  rose,  and  stood  facing  Louise,  her  face 
grave,  inexorable,  unflinching. 

"Louise,  say  no  more.  No  human  reasoning,  no 
human  law,  no  human  sanction  or  prohibition  can 
influence  me.  No  one  may  judge  between  a  woman 
and  the  depths  of  her  own  body  and  soul;  in  so  grave 
a  matter  each  must  decide  according  to  her  own  con- 
science. What  to  the  one  is  shame,  hatred,  and  hor- 
ror, to  the  other  is  joy,  wonder,  and  love.  To  me, 
Louise,  this  suffering — tragic  and  terrible  though  it 
be — is  joy,  wonder,  and  love.  I  do  not  explain  it,  I 
do  not  justify  it;  I  do  not  think  I  even  understand  it. 
But  this  I  feel,  that  I  would  sooner  tear  out  my  living 
heart  than  voluntarily  destroy  the  life  which  is  within 
me,  and  which  I  feel  is  part  of  my  very  soul." 

Louise  was  silent.  She  felt  herself  face  to  face 
with  the  great  primeval  instinct  of  maternity;  and 
words  failed  her.  Then  the  thought  of  their  return 
to  Belgium  clutched  at  her  heart  again. 

"But  if  we  go  home!  Think,  think  of  the  shame  of 
it!  What  will  they  say,  those  who  have  known  us? 
Think — what  will  they  say?" 

Cherie  sighed.     "I  cannot  help  what  they  say." 

"And  when  Claude  returns,  Cherie !  When  Claude 
returns.  .  .  ." 

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Cherie  bowed  her  head  and  did  not  answer. 

Louise  moved  nearer  to  her.  "And  have  you  for- 
gotten Florian?  Florian,  who  loves  you,  and  hoped 
to  make  you  his  wife?  .  .  ." 

The  tears  welled  up  into  Cherie's  eyes,  but  she  was 
silent. 

Louise's  voice  rose  to  a  bitter  cry.  "Cherie! 
Think  of  the  brutal  hands  that  bound  you,  of  the  in- 
famous enemy  that  outraged  you.  Think,  think  that 
you,  a  Belgian,  will  be  the  mother  of  a  German 
child!" 

But  Cherie  cared  nothing,  remembered  nothing, 
heard  nothing.  She  heard  no  other  voice  but  that 
child-voice  asking  from  her  the  gift  of  life,  telling  her 
that  in  the  land  of  the  unborn  there  are  no  Germans 
and  no  Belgians,  no  victors  and  no  vanquished,  but 
only  the  innocent  flowers  of  futurity — the  white- 
winged  doves  of  Jesus,  and  the  snowy  lambs  of  God. 


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BOOK  III 
CHAPTER  XX 

FELDWEBEL  KARL  SIGISMUND  SCHWARZ  lay  on  the  in- 
ternal slope  of  a  crater  under  a  red  sunset  sky.  His 
eyes  were  shut.  But  he  was  not  asleep.  He  was 
making  up  his  mind  that  he  must  move  his  left  arm. 
Something  heavy  seemed  to  be  pressing  it  down,  crush- 
ing and  crunching  it.  He  would  move  it,  he  would 
lift  it  up  in  the  air  and  feel  the  circulation  return 
to  it  and  the  breezes  of  heaven  blow  on  it.  Never 
was  there  such  a  hot  and  heavy  arm.  .  .  .  Yes.  He 
would  certainly  lift  it  in  a  moment. 

After  this  great  mental  exertion,  Feldwebel 
Schwarz  went  to  sleep  for  a  few  moments;  then  he 
woke  up  again,  more  than  ever  determined  to  move  his 
arm.  What  did  one  do  when  one  wanted  to  move 
one's  arm?  And  where  was  his  arm?  Where  was 
everything?  Where  was  he,  Karl  Sigismund 
Schwarz?  .  .  .  There  was  evidently  a  'cello  playing 
somewhere  quite  close  to  him;  he  could  hear  it  right 
in  his  head :  "Zoom  .  .  .  zoom-zoom  .  .  .  zoom-zoom." 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  knew  where  he  was.  He 
was  in  Charlottenburg,  in  the  Cafe  des  Westens,  and 

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the  Hungarian,  Makowsky,  was  playing  on  the  Bass- 
geige.  Zoom  .  .  .  zoom-zoom.  .  .  .  The  rest  of  the 
orchestra  would  join  in  presently.  Meanwhile,  what 
was  the  matter  with  his  arm?  He  groaned  aloud  and 
tried  to  raise  himself  on  his  right  elbow.  He  could 
not  do  so;  but  in  turning  his  head  he  caught  sight  of 
a  man  lying  close  beside  him,  a  man  in  Belgian  uni- 
form lying  flat  on  the  ground  with  his  profile  turned  to 
the  sky.  This  convinced  Schwarz  that  he  was  not  in 
Charlottenburg  after  all.  He  was  somewhere  in 
Flanders  near  a  rotten  old  city  called  Ypres;  and  he 
was  lying  in  a  hole  made  by  a  shell.  He  glanced  side- 
ways at  the  Belgian  again.  Then  he  cried  out  loud, 
"See  here,  what  is  the  matter  with  my  arm?"  But  the 
man  did  not  answer,  and  Schwarz  realized  that  he 
probably  did  not  understand  German.  Probably, 
also,  he  was  dead. 

So  Karl  Schwarz  lay  back  again,  and  listened  to  the 
'cello  buzzing  in  his  brain. 

The  red  sunset  had  faded  into  a  drab  twilight  when 
in  his  turn  the  Belgian  opened  his  eyes,  sighed  and 
sat  up.  He  saw  the  wounded  German  lying  beside 
him  with  limp  legs  outstretched,  a  mangled  arm  and 
a  face  caked  with  blood.  The  man's  eyes  were  open, 
so  the  Belgian  nodded  to  him  and  said,  "Ca  va,  mon 

•  O" 

vieuxr 

"Verfluchter  Schweinehund"  replied  Karl 
Schwarz;  and  Florian  Audet,  who  did  not  understand 

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that  he  was  being  called  a  damned  swine-hound, 
nodded  back  again  in  a  friendly  way.  Then  each  was 
silent  with  his  thoughts. 

Florian  tried  to  realize  what  had  happened.  He 
tentatively  moved  one  arm;  then  the  other;  then  his 
feet  and  legs.  He  moved  his  shoulders  a  little;  they 
seemed  all  right.  He  felt  nothing  but  a  pain  in  the 
back  of  his  neck,  like  a  violent  cramp;  otherwise  there 
seemed  nothing  much  the  matter  with  him.  Why  was 
he  lying  there?  Let  him  remember.  There  had  been 
an  order  to  attack  ...  a  dash  over  the  white  Ypres 
road  and  across  the  fields  to  the  south  .  .  .  then  an 
explosion — yes.  That  was  it.  He  had  been  blown 
up.  This  was  shock  or  something.  He  wondered 
where  the  remains  of  his  company  was  and  how 
things  had  turned  out.  There  were  sounds  of  firing 
not  far  away,  the  spluttering  of  rifles  and  the  boom- 
ing of  the  gun. 

He  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet,  but  it  was  as  if  the 
earth  rose  with  him.  He  could  not  get  his  hands  off 
the  ground — earth  and  sky  whirled  round  him,  and  he 
had  to  lie  down  again. 

Soon  darkness  came  up  out  of  the  thundering  east 
and  blew  out  the  twilight. 

Meanwhile  Feldwebel  Schwarz  was  again  in  the 
Cafe  des  Westens;  the  orchestra  of  ten  thousand  Bass- 
geigen  was  booming  like  mad,  and  he  was  beating  on 
the  table  with  his  heavy  arm,  calling  for  the  waiter 

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Max  to  bring  him  something  cold  to  drink.  Max 
came  hurrying  up  and  stood  before  him  carrying  a 
tray  laden  with  glasses — huge  cool  Schoppen  of 
Miinchner  and  Lager,  and  tall  glasses  of  lemonade 
with  ice  clinking  in  it.  Which  would  he  have?  He 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  which  he  would  have. 
His  throat  burned  him,  his  stomach  was  on  fire  with 
thirst,  and  he  could  not  say  which  of  the  cool  drinks 
he  wanted.  He  felt  that  he  must  drink  them  all — the 
iced  Miinchner,  the  chilly  Lager,  the  biting  lemonade 
— he  must  drink  them  all  together,  or  die.  Suddenly 
he  noticed  that  the  Wasserleiche — you  know  the  Was- 
serleiche,  the  "Water-corpse"  of  the  Cafe  des  Westens 
— the  cadaverous-looking  woman  whose  face  is  of  such 
a  peculiar  hue  that  you  would  vow  she  had  been 
drowned  and  left  lying  in  the  water  for  a  couple  of 
days  before  they  fished  her  out  again — well,  she  had 
come  up  to  the  waiter  and  was  embracing  him,  and  all 
the  glasses  were  slipping  off  his  tray.  Ping! — pang! 
— down  they  crashed!  Ping! — pang!  smashing  and 
crashing  all  around.  You  never  heard  glasses  make 
such  a  noise.  There  was  nothing  left  to  drink — noth- 
ing in  the  wide  world. 

Then  Feldwebel  Schwarz  began  to  cry.  He  heard 
himself  moaning  and  crying,  until  Max  the  waiter 
looked  at  him  and  then  he  saw  that  it  was  not  Max  the 
waiter  at  all  that  the  Water-corpse  was  embracing. 
She  never  did  embrace  men.  It  was  her  friend 

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Melanie,  who  stood  there  laughing  with  her  mouth 
wide  open,  showing  the  pink  roof  of  her  mouth  and 
her  tiny  wolfish  teeth — the  two  eye-teeth  slightly 
longer  than  the  others  and  very  pointed. 

Karl  Schwarz  knew  that  if  he  wanted  anything  to 
drink  he  must  be  amiable  to  Melanie.  He  would  sing 
her  the  song  about  "Grafin  Melanie,"  beginning  "Nur 
fur  Natur.  .  .  ." 

But  he  could  not  remember  it.  He  could  only  re- 
member the  Ueberbrettel  song — 

"Die  Flundern 

"Werden  sich  wundern.  .  .  ." 

He  sang  this  a  great  many  times,  and  the  waiter 
Max,  who  was  lying  on  the  floor  among  the  broken 
glasses,  applauded  loudly.  You  never  heard  such 
clapping;  it  went  right  through  one's  head.  But 
Melanie  did  not  give  him  anything  to  drink,  and  the 
Water-corpse — he  suddenly  remembered  that  she 
never  allowed  any  one  to  speak  to  Melanie — turned 
on  him  furiously  and  bit  him  in  the  arm.  He  howled 
with  pain,  and  then  Melanie  bent  forward  showing  all 
her  wolfish  teeth,  and  she  also  bit  him  in  the  arm. 
They  were  tearing  and  mangling  him.  He  could  not 
get  his  arm  away  from  the  two  dreadful  creatures. 
"Verdammte  Sauweiber!"  he  shouted  at  them,  and  his 
voice  was  so  loud  that  it  woke  him. 

He  saw  the  star-strewn  sky  above  him,  and  beside 
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him  the  prostrate  figure  of  the  Belgian  as  he  had 
seen  him  before.  Probably,  he  said  to  himself, 
Melanie  and  the  Water-corpse  had  been  at  this  man 
too.  To  keep  them  away  he  had  to  go  on  singing 
with  his  parched  throat— 

"Die  Flundern 

"Werden  sich  wundern.  .  .  .*' 

"Die  Flundern 

"Werden  sich  wundern.  .  .  ." 

He  imagined  that  these  words  possessed  some  occult 
power  which  must  keep  the  two  horrible  women  away 
from  him. 

So  he  continued  to  repeat  them  all  night  long. 

Between  two  and  three  o'clock  Florian  Audet 
opened  his  eyes  and  turned  his  head  to  look  round. 
The  wounded  German's  voice  had  roused  him  from 
sleep — or  from  unconsciousness — and  he  lay  there 
vaguely  wondering  what  that  continually  repeated 
cry  might  mean. 

"Die  Flundern  werden  sich  wundern*'  .  .  .  The 
words  sank  into  his  brain  and  remained  there.  Per- 
haps, he  mused,  it  was  some  kind  of  national  war-cry, 
a  shout  of  victory  or  defiance  .  .  .  "Death  or  lib- 
erty! .  .  ."  or  "In  the  name  of  the  Kaiser,"  or  some- 
thing like  that. 

From  where  he  was  he  could  see  the  outstretched 
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figure  lying  to  the  left  of  him,  the  limp  legs,  the  help- 
less, upturned  feet  in  their  thick  muddy  boots ;  and  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  rattling  breath  still  repeating 
brokenly,  "Die  Flundern  werden  sich  wundern.  .  .  ." 

An  overwhelming  sense  of  pity  came  over  him ;  pity 
for  the  broken  figure  beside  him,  pity  for  himself,  pity 
for  the  world.  With  an  immense  effort,  for  he  felt 
as  if  every  bone  were  broken,  he  turned  on  his  side 
and,  struggling  slowly  along  the  ground,  dragged 
himself  towards  the  dying  man.  When  he  reached 
him  and  could  touch  him  with  his  outstretched  hand 
he  rested  awhile;  then  he  fumbled  for  his  brandy- 
flask,  found  it,  unscrewed  it  and  held  it  near  the  man's 
face. 

"Tiens!  bois"  he  said.  But  the  German  did  not 
move  to  take  it;  and  soon  the  rattling  breath  stopped. 

Florian  wriggled  a  little  closer,  slipped  his  right 
arm  under  the  man's  head  and  raised  it.  Then  by  the 
grey  April  starlight  he  saw  something  bubble  and 
gush  over  the  man's  face  from  a  wound  in  his  fore- 
head. The  German  opened  his  eyes.  What  were 
those  fiendish  women  doing  to  him  now?  Pouring 
warm  wine  over  his  head.  .  .  .  Through  the  tepid 
scarlet  veil  his  wild  eyes  blinked  up  at  Florian  in 
childish  terror  and  bewilderment.  A  wave  of  sicken- 
ing faintness  overcame  Florian;  his  arm  slackened, 
and  his  enemy's  ghastly  crimson  face  fell  back  upon 
it  as  Florian  himself  sank  beside  him  in  a  swoon. 

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There  they  lay  all  through  the  night,  side  by  side, 
like  brothers,  the  living  and  the  dead;  the  German 
soldier  with  his  head  on  the  Belgian  officer's  arm. 
And  thus  two  German  Red  Cross  men  found  them  in 
the  chilly  dawn  as  they  slid  down  the  crater-side, 
carrying  a  folded  stretcher  between  them.  They  were 
very  young,  the  two  Red  Cross  men;  they  had  not 
finished  studying  philosophy  in  the  Bonn  University 
when  the  war  had  broken  out,  and  they  had  left  Kant 
and  Hebel  for  a  quick  course  of  surgery.  The  young- 
est one,  who  had  very  fair  hair,  wrote  foolish  Latin 
poems,  said  to  be  after  the  style  of  Lucretius. 

They  dropped  the  stretcher  and  stood  silently  look- 
ing down  at  those  two  motionless  figures  in  their  fra- 
ternal embrace,  whose  attitude  told  their  tale.  Flor- 
ian's  hand,  holding  the  open  brandy-flask,  lay  on  the 
dead  German's  breast;  the  ghastly  dead  face  of  their 
comrade  was  pillowed  easily  on  the  enemy's  encircling 
arm. 

Something  rose  in  the  throat  of  the  two  who  gazed, 
and  the  younger  one — the  one  who  wrote  Latin  verse 
—bent  down  and  laid  his  hand  lightly,  as  if  invoking  a 
blessing  on  Florian's  pale  forehead.  Then  he  turned 
with  a  start  to  his  companion.  "He  is  alive!" 

The  other  in  his  turn  touched  the  man's  brow,  then 
lifted  the  limp  hand  to  feel  his  pulse.  They  knelt  be- 
side him  and  poured  brandy  down  his  throat.  Then 
they  worked  over  him  for  a  long  while,  until  a  breath 

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of  life  fluttered  through  the  ashen  lips,  and  the  vague 
blue  eyes  opened  and  looked  into  theirs. 

The  Germans  rose  to  their  feet.  The  Belgian,  when 
he  had  lain  unconscious  with  his  arm  around  their 
fallen  comrade,  had  been  to  them  a  hero  and  a  friend. 
Now,  alive,  with  open  eyes,  he  was  their  foe  and  their 
prisoner. 

They  spoke  to  him  at  first,  not  unkindly,  in  German; 
then,  somewhat  brusquely,  in  French;  but  he  gave 
them  no  reply.  His  brain  was  benumbed  and  stupe- 
fied. He  could  not  speak  and  he  could  not  stand. 
So  they  lifted  him  and  placed  him  on  the  stretcher. 

"Poor  devil!"  murmured  the  younger  man  as  he 
extended  the  two  limp  arms  along  the  recumbent  body 
and  pointed  out  to  his  companion  the  right  sleeve  of 
the  Belgian  uniform  sodden  and  stiff  with  the  German 
soldier's  blood. 

"Poor  devil!  What  have  we  saved  him  for?  To 
send  him  to  the  hell  of  Wittemberg!  .  .  ." 

"Hard  lines,"  murmured  the  other  one. 

"Gerechter  Gott!"  exclaimed  the  foolish  fair- 
haired  poet,  "I  wish  we  could  give  him  a  chance." 

They  gave  him  a  chance. 

Florian  never  knew  how  it  was  that  he  found  him- 
self lying  on  a  blanket  on  the  stone  floor  of  a  half- 
demolished  farm  building,  a  sort  of  dilapidated  cow- 
house. 

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As  he  raised  his  aching  head  he  saw  that  milk, 
bread,  and  brandy  had  been  left  on  the  floor  beside 
him;  also  a  packet  of  cigarettes,  some  matches,  and 
a  tablet  of  chocolate.  He  drank  greedily  of  the  milk; 
then  he  took  a  sip  of  brandy  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 
Though  giddy  and  trembling,  he  found  he  could  stand. 
And  as  he  stood  he  noticed  that  he  was  stripped  to 
the  skin.  There  was  not  a  stitch  of  clothing  on  him, 
nor  was  there  a  vestige  of  his  own  uniform  anywhere 
to  be  seen.  There  was  nothing  but  a  pair  of  muddy 
yellow  boots  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor — boots 
that  reminded  him  of  those  he  had  seen  on  the  dying 
German  on  the  hill-side.  These  and  the  grey  blanket 
he  had  lain  on  were  all  that  one  could  possibly  clothe 
oneself  in.  Nothing  that  had  been  his  was  there. 
Even  the  brandy  was  not  in  his  own  flask. 

Florian  looked  round  the  deserted  place,  the  crum- 
bling walls  which  bomb  and  shell  had  battered. 
There  was  a  rusty,  broken  plough  in  a  corner,  a  few 
tools  and  some  odd  pots  and  pans.  After  brief  re- 
flection Florian  put  on  the  boots;  then  he  finished  the 
bread,  the  milk,  and  the  brandy.  Finally,  having 
knotted  in  one  corner  of  the  blanket  the  chocolate,  the 
cigarettes,  and  the  matches,  he  wound  the  rough  grey 
covering  round  his  body  and  stepped  out  to  face  the 
world. 

It  was  an  empty,  desolate  world ;  a  dead  horse  lay 
not  far  off  on  the  muddy  road  leading  across  the  plain. 

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By  the  sun,  Florian  judged  it  to  be  about  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  He  seemed  to  recognize  the  locality; 
it  might  be  a  mile  or  two  from  the  fighting  ground  of 
the  preceding  day.  Yes.  There  to  the  left  was  the 
straight  white  road  from  Poperinghe  to  Ypres;  he 
recognized  the  double  line  of  trees  .  .  .  where  was  he 
to  go?  In  what  direction  were  the  Belgian  lines,  he 
wondered.  He  still  felt  weak,  and  his  knees 
trembled ;  his  mind  was  vacant  except  for  a  jumble  of 
meaningless  sounds.  The  words  the  dying  German 
had  repeated  througH  the  night  rang  in  his  head  con- 
tinually. He  found  himself  murmuring  over  and 
over  again,  "Die  Flundern  werden  sich  wundern. . . ." 

He  also  had  to  make  a  strenuous  mental  effort  to 
realize  that  he  actually  was  wandering  about  the 
world  in  nothing  but  a  pair  of  boots  and  a  blanket. 
Everything  seemed  like  an  insensate  dream.  Perhaps 
he  was  still  suffering  from  shock  and  dreaming  all 
this?  Perhaps  he  was  really  lying  in  hospital  with 
concussion  of  the  brain.  .  .  .  Who  on  earth  could 
have  stolen  all  his  clothes  and  left  him  in  exchange 
the  milk,  the  chocolate,  and  the  cigarettes? 

There  was  something  base  and  treacherous  in  rob- 
bing an  unconscious  man,  he  said  to  himself.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  was  a  touch  of  friendliness  and 
kindness  in  the  chocolate  and  the  cigarettes.  The 
whole  thing  was  absurd  and  fantastic. 

"Either,"  reasoned  Florian,  stumbling  along  in  his 
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blanket  in  the  direction  of  a  distant  wood,  "either  I 
have  been  the  prey  of  some  demented  creature,  or 
I  am  at  this  very  moment  light-headed  myself.  .  .  . 
"Die  Flundern  werden  sich  wundern"  He  had  to 
make  an  effort  not  to  say  those  crazy  words  aloud. 
He  felt  he  would  go  mad  if  he  did  so.  As  long  as  he 
kept  them  shut  up  in  his  brain  he  was  their  master; 
but  if  he  let  them  out  he  felt  they  would  get  the  better 
of  him,  and  he  would  go  on  saying  them  over  and  over 
and  over  again  like  the  delirious  German.  Decidedly 
he  was  weak  in  his  head,  and  must  try  to  keep  a  firm 
hold  on  his  brain.  "Die  Flundern  .  .  .  werden  sich 
wundern" 

A  few  moments  later  he  saw  some  mounted  soldiers 
riding  out  of  the  wood ;  he  saw  at  once  that  it  was  a 
German  patrol.  He  thought  of  turning  back  and 
hiding  in  the  shed  again,  but  it  was  too  late.  They 
had  caught  sight  of  him,  and  were  riding  down 
towards  him  at  full  speed. 

Well,  the  game  was  up,  said  Florian  to  himself;  he 
would  be  taken.  He  could  neither  kill  others  nor 
himself  with  a  piece  of  chocolate  and  a  packet  of 
Josetti. 

So  he  stood  stock-still,  folded  his  arms,  and 
awaited  their  arrival.  ("Die  Flundern  werden  sich 
wundern.  .  .  .") 

As  the  eight  or  ten  men  galloped  up,  Florian  noted 
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from  afar  their  looks  of  amazement  at  the  sight  of 
him.  They  hailed  him  in  German,  and  he  did  not 
reply.  He  stood  like  a  statue ;  he  said  to  himself  that 
he  would  meet  his  fate  with  dignity.  But  he  had  not 
reckoned  with  the  ludicrous  effect  of  his  attire.  Two 
of  the  men  dismounted,  and  one  of  them  addressed 
him  in  German  with  a  hroad  grin  on  his  face;  but  the 
other — a  young  officer — silenced  the  first  one  ab- 
ruptly, and  turning  a  grim  countenance  to  Florian, 
asked  him  in  French  why  he  was  in  that  array. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  uniform?"  he 
asked,  scowling. 

Florian  scowled  back  at  him,  and  gave  no  reply. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  speak. 
("Die  Flundern  werden  sich  wundern") 

The  officer  gave  an  order,  and  two  soldiers  took 
him  by  the  arms  and  dragged  his  blanket  from  him. 
He  stood  there  in  his  muddy  boots,  bare  in  the  sun- 
shine, his  face  and  hands  and  hair  caked  with  mud. 
But  he  was  a  fine  and  handsome  figure  for  all  that. 

The  officer  and  the  men  had  turned  their  attention 
to  the  knot  in  the  blanket.  They  undid  it  and  took 
out  the  contents  of  the  improvised  pocket. 

Then  they  looked  at  the  figure  before  them  and  at 
each  other.  The  chocolate  was  German;  the  ciga- 
rettes were  German;  the  boots  were  German.  What 
was  the  man? 

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"Meschugge"  murmured  the  lieutenant  in  explana- 
tion, not  of  Florian's  nationality,  but  of  his  condition 
of  mind. 

"Meschugge!  Meschugge!"  repeated  the  others, 
laughing. 

The  officer  seemed  uncertain.  He  turned  and  spoke 
in  a  low  voice  to  the  others.  Florian  knew  they  were 
discussing  him.  Would  they  arrest  him  as  a  cunning 
Belgian  who  had  discarded  his  uniform,  stolen  the 
boots  and  the  blanket,  and  was  shamming  to  be  insane 
and  dumb?  Or  would  they  think  him  a  German  gone 
daft  and  send  him  to  an  infirmary?  He  hoped  so. 
It  would  be  easier  to  make  one's  escape  from  an 
infirmary  than  from  a  German  prison.  A  German 
prison!  Florian  clenched  his  teeth.  He  saw  that 
the  officer  seemed  inclined  to  adopt  this  course. 

"Die  Flundern  werden — "  He  almost  said  it 
aloud.  The  sound  of  these  guttural  German  voices 
round  him  seemed  to  drag  the  words  out  of  him.  He 
felt  his  lips  moving  and  he  saw  them  watching  him 
closely.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  crazy  words  ran  out  of 
his  mouth.  "Die  Flundern  werden  sich  wundern!" 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  effect  of  those  words. 
The  soldiers  burst  into  loud  laughter;  even  the  officer's 
hard  face  relaxed  and  he  smiled  broadly.  The  others 
repeated  it  with  comments.  "Did  you  hear?  'Die 
Flundern !  ...  He  has  the  Ueberbrettel  on  the 
brain!"  And  they  roared  with  laughter  and  clapped 

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him  on  the  bare  shoulders  and  asked  him  in  what 
Kabarett  he  had  left  his  heart  and  his  senses. 

Florian  understood  not  a  word,  but  he  knew  he  was 
safe.  At  least,  for  the  present. 

Whatever  the  words  were,  they  had  saved  him,  and 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  for  the  time  being  he  would 
use  no  others.  A  little  later  he  added  one  other  word 
to  his  repertoire,  and  that  was  Meschugge,  which  is 
Berlin  dialect  for  mad.  He  himself  had  no  faint  idea 
of  what  it  meant,  but  he  heard  it  pronounced,  evi- 
dently in  regard  to  himself,  by  the  Prussian  Lieuten- 
ant in  whose  charge  he  was  conducted  back  to  the 
German  lines. 

"Die  Flundern  werden  sick  wundern"  and 
"Meschugge"  With  those  six  words,  murmured  at 
intervals  once  or  twice  in  a  day,  he  got  through  the 
rear  lines  of  the  German  army,  and  through  a  brief 
stay  in  a  camp  hospital,  and  finally  into  a  Liege  in- 
firmary. Those  who  heard  him  knew  there  could  be 
no  mistake.  He  was  no  Belgian  and  no  Frenchman. 
Of  all  words  in  the  rich  German  vocabulary,  of  all 
lines  of  German  verse  or  song,  no  foreigner  in  the 
world  could  ever  have  hit  on  just  these.  None  but  a 
true  son  of  the  Fatherland — indeed  none  but  a  pure- 
blooded  Berliner — would  have  even  known  what  they 
meant. 

"Ein  famoser  Kerl"  was  this  young  Adonis,  who 
had  turned  up  from  heaven  knows  where  in  a  blanket 

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and  a  pair  of  boots.  "Ein  ganz  famoser  Ker//" 
And  they  clapped  him  on  the  shoulders.  "Er  lebe 
hock!"  ' 

Thus  it  came  about  that  the  Water-corpse  and 
Melanie  of  the  Cafe  des  Westens  unwittingly  saved  the 
life  of  a  gallant  Belgian  soldier.  And  as  this  is  the 
only  good  deed  they  are  ever  likely  to  perform,  may 
it  stand  to  their  credit  on  the  Day  of  Judgment  when 
they  are  summoned  to  account  for  their  wretched  and 
unprofitable  lives. 


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CHAPTER  XXI 

ON  the  1st  of  May  the  Ourthe  and  the  Aisne,  each 
with  a  crisp  Spring  wave  to  its  waters,  came  together 
at  Bomal.  "Here  I  am,  as  fresh  as  ever,"  said  the 
frisky  little  Aisne. 

"Oh,  come  off  the  rocks,"  grumbled  the  Ourthe, 
elbowing  her  way  towards  the  bridge,  "and  don't  be 
so  gushing." 

"There's  a  stork  passing  over  us  with  a  May-baby 
in  his  beak,"  bubbled  the  Aisne. 

"A  good  thing  if  he  dropped  it.  Here  I  am  very 
deep,"  quoth  the  Ourthe. 

The  Aisne,  who  was  not  deep  at  all,  did  not  under- 
stand the  quibble.  "How  very  blue  you  are!"  she 
gurgled.  "What  is  the  matter?  Is  it  going  to  rain?" 

"If  it  does,  mind  you  keep  to  your  bed,"  retorted 
the  Ourthe  sarcastically. 

"I  won't.  I  am  coming  into  yours,"  plashed  the 
Aisne;  and  did  so. 

"Oh!  The  Meuse  take  you!"  grumbled  the  Ourthe 
foaming  and  swelling. 

And  they  went  on  together,  quarrelling  all  the  way 
to  Liege,  where  the  Meuse  took  them  both. 

The  stork  flew  across  the  bridge,  and  stopped  over 
Dr.  Brandes's  house. 

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"Open  your  eyes,  little  human  child,"  said  the 
stork.  "This  is  where  you  are  born." 

"Rockaby,  lullaby,  bees  in  the  clover  .  .  ."  sang 
Nurse  Elliot,  of  the  American  Red  Cross,  rocking  the 
cradle  with  her  foot  and  looking  dreamily  out  of  the 
window.  From  where  she  sat  she  could  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Bomal  church  steeple  and  the  swaying 
tops  of  the  trees  in  the  cemetery. 

"Perhaps  this  poor  lamb  would  be  better  off  if  it 
were  already  asleep  over  there  under  those  trees," 
reflected  Nurse  Caroline  Elliot.  And  as  if  in  assent, 
the  infant  in  the  cradle  uttered  a  melancholy  wail. 

Nurse  Elliot  immediately  began  to  sing  Bliss  Car- 
man's May-song: 

Day  comes,  May  comes, 
One  who  was  away  comes, 
All  the  world  is  fair  again, 
Fair  and  kind  to  me. 

Day  comes,  May  comes, 

One  who  was  away  comes, 

Set  his  place  at  hearth  and  board 

As  it  used  to  be. 

May  comes,  day  comes, 
One  who  was  away  comes, 
Higher  are  the  hills  of  home, 
Bluer  is  the  sea. 

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The  baby  soon  gave  up  all  attempt  to  compete  with 
the  powerful  American  contralto,  and  with  puckered 
brow  and  tiny  clenched  fist  went  mournfully  to  sleep 
again.  He  had  been  in  the  world  just  seven  days  and 
had  not  found  much  to  rejoice  over.  Life  seemed  to 
consist  of  a  good  deal  of  noise  and  discomfort  and 
bumping  about.  There  seemed  to  be  not  much  food, 
a  great  deal  of  singing,  and  a  rariety  of  aches.  "I 
wish  I  were  back  in  the  land  of  Neverness,"  wept  the 
baby,  "lying  in  the  cup  of  a  lotus-flower  in  the  blue 
morning  of  inexistence." 

The  stork,  still  standing  on  one  leg  on  the  roof 
resting  from  its  journey,  heard  this  and  said:  "Never 
mind.  Cheer  up.  It  is  not  for  long." 

"For  how  long  is  it?"  asked  the  baby  anxiously. 

"Oh,  less  than  a  hundred  years,"  said  the  stork, 
combing  the  feathers  of  its  breast  with  its  beak. 

Then  the  baby  wept  even  more  bitterly.  "Why? 
Why,  for  so  short  a  time?"  it  cried. 

"You  bother  me,"  said  the  stork;  and  flew  away. 

And  the  cradle  rocked  and  the  baby  wept  and  Miss 
Caroline  Elliot  sang. 

•  •••••• 

They  had  arrived  in  Bomal  ten  days  before — 
Louise,  Cherie  and  Mireille — after  a  nightmare  jour- 
ney, through  Holland  and  Flanders.  At  the  station  in 
Liege,  Cherie,  who  was  very  ill,  aroused  the  compas- 
sionate attention  of  the  American  Red  Cross  nurses 

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and  they  obtained  permission  to  bring  her  in  a  motor 
ambulance  to  Bomal.  Nurse  Elliot,  a  tall  kind 
woman,  accompanied  her,  and  was  permitted  to  re- 
main with  her  and  assist  her  during  the  ordeal  of  the 
ensuing  days. 

On  their  arrival  Louise  had  not  come  straight  to  the 
house.  She  had  not  dared  to  bring  Mireille  to  her 
home.  She  feared  she  knew  not  what.  Would  the 
child  recognize  the  place?  Would  the  unconscious 
eyes  perceive  and  recognize  the  surroundings  that  had 
witnessed  her  martyrdom?  What  effect  might  such  a 
shock  have  on  that  stricken,  sensitive  soul?  .  .  . 
Louise  felt  unable  to  face  any  new  emotions  after 
the  fatigue  and  misery  of  the  journey  and  the  hourly 
anxiety  in  regard  to  Cherie. 

So  she  accompanied  Mireille  to  the  home  of  their 
old  friend,  Madame  Dore. 

Doubtful  of  the  welcome  she  would  receive,  fearful 
of  the  changes  she  might  find,  Louise  knocked  with 
trembling  hand  at  the  door  of  her  old  friend's  house. 

Madame  Dore  herself  opened  the  door  to  her. 
But — was  this  Madame  Dore?  This  haggard,  white- 
haired  woman,  who  stared  at  her  with  such  startled 
eyes? 

"Madame  Dore!  It  is  I — Louise  and  little 
Mireille!  Do  you  not  recognize  us?" 

"Hush!  Come  in."  The  woman  drew  them 
quickly  into  the  passage  and  locked  the  door.  Her 

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eyes  had  a  roving,  frightened  look,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  nervous  spasm  contracted  her  face. 

"Oh  my  dear,  my  dear,"  said  Louise,  embracing 
her  with  tears. 

Locked  in  Madame  Dore's  bedroom — for  the  ter- 
rorized woman  had  the  obsession  of  being  constantly 
watched  and  spied  upon — Louise  heard  her  friend's 
tragic  story  and  recounted  her  own.  With  pitying 
tears  Madame  Dore  caressed  Mireille's  soft  hair  and 
assured  Louise  that  it  would  be  a  joy  for  her  and  for 
Jeannette  to  keep  her  with  them. 

"Dear  little  Jeannette!"  exclaimed  Louise.  "How 
glad  I  shall  be  to  see  her  again.  Is  she  well?" 

Yes.     Jeannette  was  well. 

"And  Cecile — ?     You  say  she  is  in  England?" 

"Yes.  She  went  with  four  or  five  other  women 
from  Bomal  and  Hamoir.  She  could  not  live  here 
any  longer;  her  heart  was  broken.  She  never  got 
over  the  murder  of  her  brother  Andre" — the  painful 
spasm  distorted  the  careworn  face  again — "you  knew 
that  he  was  shot  by  the  side  of  the  poor  old  Cure  that 
night  in  the  Place  de  FEglise?" 

Yes.  Louise  knew.  And  she  pressed  the  hand  of 
her  old  friend  with  compassionate  tenderness.  They 
talked  of  all  their  friends  and  acquaintances.  The 
storm  had  swept  over  them,  wrecking,  ruining  and 
scattering  them  far  and  wide. 

"Hush,  listen!"  whispered  Madame  Dore,  suddenly 
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grasping  Louise's  arm.  Outside  they  could  hear  the 
measured  tread  of  feet  and  the  sound  of  loud  voices, 
the  loathed  and  dreaded  German  voices  raised  in  talk 
and  laughter. 

"Our  masters!"  whispered  Madame  Dore.  "They 
enter  our  houses  when  they  choose,  they  come  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  rummage  through  our  things. 
They  take  away  our  money  and  our  jewels.  They 
read  our  letters,  they  order  us  about  and  insult  us. 
We  cannot  speak  or  think  or  breathe  without  their 
knowledge  and  permission.  They  are  constantly 
threatening  us  with  imprisonment  or  with  deportation. 
We  are  slaves  and  half -starved.  Ah!"  cried  the  un- 
happy woman,  "why  did  I  not  have  the  courage  to  go 
with  Cecile  to  England?  I  don't  know  ...  I  felt 
old,  old  and  frightened.  .  .  .  And  now  Jeannette  and 
I  are  here  as  in  a  prison,  and  Cecile  is  far  away  and 
alone." 

Louise  soothed  her  as  best  she  could  with  caresses 
and  consoling  words.  But  Madame  Dore  was  heart- 
stricken  and  desolate,  and  the  fact  that  they  had  never 
met  Cecile  when  they  were  in  London  caused  her  bitter 
disappointment.  Perhaps  some  evil  had  befallen 
Cecile?  Did  Louise  think  she  was  safe?  The  En- 
glish were  kind,  were  they  not? 

Yes,  Louise  was  sure  Cecile  was  safe.  And  yes, 
the  English  were  very  kind. 

Even  as  she  spoke  a  rush  of  longing  came  over  her; 
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a  feeling  that  resembled  home-sickness  in  its  tender- 
ness and  yearning.  England! — ah,  England!  How 
safe,  indeed,  how  safe  and  kind  and  cool  in  its  girdle 
of  grey  water!  .  .  . 

Perhaps,  mused  Louise,  as  she  hurried  home  alone, 
meeting  the  inquisitive  glance  of  strangers  and  the 
insolent  stare  of  German  soldiers  in  the  familiar  vil- 
lage-streets, perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  after 
all  if  they  had  remained  safely  in  England,  if  they 
had  disregarded  the  warning  of  the  invader  and 
allowed  him  to  confiscate  their  home.  Thus  at  least 
they  would  have  remained  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
intrusions,  his  insults  and  his  cruelty. 

Meanwhile,  in  Dr.  Brandes's  house  the  energetic 
and  capable  Miss  Elliot  had  not  been  idle.  A  quick 
survey  of  the  ransacked  abode  had  shown  her  that, 
although  most  of  the  valuables  and  all  the  silver  and 
pictures  had  been  stolen,  the  necessary  household 
utensils,  and  even  the  linen,  were  left.  Briskly  and 
cheerfully  she  settled  Cherie  in  a  snow-white  bed, 
brushed  and  braided  her  shining  hair  in  two  long 
plaits,  gave  her  a  cup  of  bread-and-milk  and  set  reso- 
lutely to  work  to  clear  away  some  of  the  litter  and  con- 
fusion before  Louise  should  arrive. 

There  were  dirty  plates  and  glasses,  and  empty 
bottles  everywhere;  there  were  muddy  mattresses  on 
the  floor.  People  seemed  to  have  slept  and  eaten  in 
every  room  in  the  house.  Tables,  carpets  and  beds 

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were  strewn  with  cigar  and  cigarette-stumps;  drawers 
and  wardrobes  had  been  emptied  and  their  contents 
scattered  on  the  floor;  basins  of  dirty  water  stood  on 
cabinets,  sideboard  and  chairs. 

Caroline  Elliot  brushed  and  emptied  and  cleared 
and  cleaned,  and  drew  in  the  shutters,  and  opened  the 
windows,  and  lit  the  fires;  and  by  the  time  she  heard 
Louise's  hurrying  footsteps,  was  able  to  stand  aside 
with  a  little  smile  of  satisfaction  and  watch  Louise's 
pale  face  light  up  with  emotion  and  pleasure. 

It  was  home,  home  after  all! 

And  Louise,  looking  round  the  familiar  rooms,  felt 
a  tremor  of  hope — the  timid  hope  of  better  days  to 
come — stir  in  the  depths  of  her  thankful  heart. 


-218- 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  child  was  three  weeks  old  and  still  Cherie  had 
not  seen  either  friend  or  acquaintance,  nor  had  she 
dared  to  go  out  of  the  house.  She  felt  too  shy  to 
show  herself  in  the  day-time,  and  after  nightfall  the 
inhabitants  of  Bomal  were  forbidden  to  leave  their 
homes.  Cherie  dreaded  meeting  any  of  her  acquaint- 
ances; true,  there  were  not  many  left  in  the  village, 
for  some  had  taken  refuge  abroad  and  others  had  gone 
to  live  in  the  larger  cities,  Liege  and  Brussels,  where, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  they  hoped  to  feel  less  bitterly 
their  state  of  subservience  and  slavery. 

It  was  a  sunny  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  May 
that  Nurse  Elliot  at  last  packed  her  neat  bag  and 
made  ready  to  leave  them. 

"I  cannot  possibly  stay  a  day  longer,"  she  said, 
caressing  Cherie,  who  clung  to  her  in  tears.  "I  must 
go  back  to  my  post  in  Liege.  Besides,  you  do  not 
need  me  any  more." 

"Oh,  I  need  you.  I  need  you!"  cried  Cherie.  "I 
shall  be  so  lonely  and  forlorn." 

"Lonely?  With  your  child?  And  with  your  sis- 
ter-in-law? Nonsense,"  said  the  nurse  briskly. 

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"But  Louise  hardly  speaks  to  me,"  said  Cherie  mis- 
erably. "She  hates  the  child,  and  she  hates  me." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  nurse  again;  but  she  felt  that 
there  was  some  truth  in  Cherie's  words. 

Indeed,  it  was  impossible  not  to  notice  the  almost 
morbid  aversion  Louise  felt  towards  the  poor  little 
intruder.  Louise  herself,  strive  as  she  would  to  hide 
or  conquer  her  feeling,  could  not  do  so.  Every  line 
and  feature  of  the  tiny  face,  every  tendril  of  its  silky 
pale-gold  hair,  its  small,  pouting  mouth,  its  strange, 
very  light  grey  eyes — all,  all  was  hateful  and  horrible 
to  her.  When  she  saw  Cherie  lift  it  up  and  kiss  it  she 
felt  herself  turn  pale  and  sick.  When  she  saw  it  at 
Cherie's  breast,  saw  the  small  head  moving,  the  tiny 
hands  searching  and  pressing,  she  shuddered  with  hor- 
ror and  repugnance.  Though  she  said  to  herself  that 
this  was  unreasonable,  that  it  was  cruel  and  wrong, 
still  the  feeling  was  unconquerable;  it  seemed  to 
spring  from  the  innermost  depths  of  her  Belgian  soul. 
Her  hatred  was  as  much  a  primitive  ingenerate  in- 
stinct, as  was  the  passionate  maternal  love  an  essence 
of  the  soul  of  Cherie. 

"She  hates  us,  Nurse  Elliot,  she  hates  us,"  assev- 
erated Cherie,  pressing  her  clasped  hands  to  her 
breast  in  a  pitiful  gesture  of  despair.  "Sometimes  if 
for  a  moment  I  forget  how  miserable  I  am,  and  I  lift 
the  little  one  up  in  my  arms,  and  laugh  at  him  and 
caress  him,  suddenly  I  feel  Louise's  eyes  fixed  upon 

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us,  cold,  hostile,  implacable.  Yes.  She  hates  us! 
And  I  suppose  every  one  will  hate  us.  Every  one  will 
turn  from  the  child  and  from  me  in  loathing  and  dis- 
gust. Where  shall  we  go?  Where  shall  we  hide,  I 
and  this  poor  little  baby  of  mine?"  She  turned  a 
tearful  glance  towards  the  red-curtained  door  that 
hid  her  little  one,  awake  and  cooing  in  his  cot. 
Nurse  Elliot  had  finished  packing  and  locking  her  bag, 
had  rolled  and  strapped  her  cloak,  tied  on  her  bonnet 
and  was  ready  to  go  to  the  station. 

"Cherie,"  she  said  gravely,  placing  both  her  hands 
on  the  girl's  frail  shoulders,  "whatever  is  in  store  for 
you,  you  will  have  to  face  it.  And  now,"  she  added, 
kissing  her  on  both  cheeks,  "if  you  love  me  a  little,  if 
I  have  really  been  of  any  help  or  comfort  to  you  dur- 
ing these  sad  days,  the  moment  has  come  for  you  to 
repay  me." 

"Oh,  how — how  can  I  ever  repay  you?"  cried 
Cherie. 

"By  putting  on  your  hat,  taking  your  baby  in  your 
arms  and  accompanying  me  to  the  station." 

"To  the  station!  I!  with—  Oh,  I  could  not,  I 
could  not!"  She  shrank  back  and  a  burning  flush 
rose  to  her  brow. 

At  that  moment  Louise  entered  the  room  dressed  to 
go  out. 

"You  will  accompany  me  to  the  station,"  repeated 
Nurse  Elliot  firmly  to  Cherie.  "You,  and  your  sister- 

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in-law,  and  the  baby  will  all  come  to  see  me  off  and 
wish  me  luck." 

"Don't — don't  ask  that,"  murmured  Cherie. 

"I  do  ask  it,"  said  Caroline  Elliot.  "And  you 
cannot  refuse.  I  have  given  you  many  days  and 
many  nights  out  of  my  life,  and  much  love  and  tender 
anxiety.  And  this  is  the  only  thanks  I  shall  ever 
ask."  She  stepped  close  to  Cherie  and  placed  her 
arms  around  her.  "Can  you  not  see,  my  dear,  that 
sooner  or  later  you  will  be  forced  to  meet  the  ordeal 
you  dread?  You  cannot  imprison  yourself  and  the 
child  for  ever  between  these  four  walls.  Then  take 
your  courage  and  face  the  world  today;  now,  while  I 
am  still  with  you." 

Cherie  stood  pale  and  hesitant;  then  she  turned  to 
Louise.  "Would  you — would  you  go  with  me?" 

There  was  so  much  humility  and  misery  in  her  voice 
that  Louise  was  touched. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  she  said;  "go  quickly  and  get 
ready." 

Cherie  ran  to  her  room.  She  put  on  the  modest 
black  frock  she  had  worn  on  the  journey  from  Eng- 
land, but  she  dressed  the  baby  in  all  his  prettiest 
clothes — the  white  cape  she  had  embroidered  for  him, 
and  the  lace  cap  with  blue  ribbons  and  the  smartest  of 
his  blue  silk  socks.  She  lifted  him  in  her  arms  and 
stepped  before  the  mirror.  After  all  it  was  a  very 

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sweet  baby,  was  it  not?  People  might  hate  him  when 
they  heard  of  him,  but  when  they  saw  him.  .  .  . 

Trembling,  blushing  and  smiling  she  appeared  at 
the  gate  where  Miss  Elliot  and  Louise  stood  waiting 
for  her.  She  stepped  timidly  out  of  doors  between 
them,  and  very  young  and  very  pathetic  did  she  look 
with  her  flushed  cheeks  and  shining,  diffident  eyes. 
Whom  would  they  meet?  Would  they  see  any  one 
they  knew? 

Yes.  They  met  Mademoiselle  Veraender,  the 
school-mistress,  who  looked  at  them,  started,  looked 
again  and  then,  blushing  crimson,  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  They  met  Madame  Linkaerts  and 
her  daughter  Marie.  The  girl  recognized  them  with 
a  cry  of  delight,  but  her  mother  took  her  brusquely 
by  the  arm  and  turned  her  brusquely  down  a  side- 
street.  They  met  four  German  soldiers  strolling 
along  who  stared  first  at  the  American  nurse,  then  at 
Louise,  then  at  Cherie  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

One  of  them  made  a  remark  and  the  others 
laughed.  They  stood  still  to  let  the  three  women  pass, 
and  the  one  who  had  spoken  waved  his  fingers  at 
Cherie.  "Ein  V aterlandskindlein? — nicht  wahr?" 
And  he  threw  a  kiss  to  the  child. 

Three  or  four  street-urchins  who  had  been  follow- 
ing the  soldiers,  imitating  their  strutting  gait  and 
sticking  their  tongues  out  at  them,  noticed  the  greet- 

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ing  and  interpreted  it  with  the  sharpness  which  char- 
acterizes the  gutter-snipe  all  the  world  over.  They 
also  began  to  throw  kisses  to  Cherie  and  to  the  baby, 
shouting,  "Petit  boche?  Quoi?"  A  lame  elderly 
man  passed  and  taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance, 
ran  after  the  boys  with  his  stick.  Others  passed,  and 
stopped.  Many  of  them  recognized  the  women,  and 
some  looked  pityingly,  others  contemptuously  at  the 
flushed  and  miserable  Cherie.  But  no  one  came  to 
speak  to  her,  no  one  greeted  her,  no  one  smiled  at  the 
child  in  its  embroidered  cape  and  its  cap  with  the 
blue  ribbons.  A  few  idlers  making  rude  remarks, 
followed  them  to  the  station. 

Nurse  Elliot  left  them.  It  was  a  sad  leave-taking. 
Then  they  returned  home  in  silence,  going  far  out  of 
their  way  to  choose  the  least  frequented  streets. 

As  they  came  down  the  shady  lane  behind  their 
house  Louise  glanced  at  Cherie,  and  her  heart  melted 
with  pity.  What  a  child  she  looked  for  her  nineteen 
years!  And  how  sad  and  frightened  and  ashamed? 
What  could  Louise  do  to  help  her?  What  consola- 
tion could  she  offer?  What  hope  could  she  hold  out? 

None.  None.  Except  that  the  child  should  die. 
And  why  should  it  die?  Was  it  not  the  child  of  puis- 
sant youth,  of  brutal  vitality?  Did  it  not  drink  its 
sustenance  from  the  purest  source  of  life?  Why 
should  it  die? 

No;  the  child  would  live;  live  to  do  harm  and 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


hurt;  to  bring  sorrow  and  shame  on  them  all.  Live 
to  keep  the  flame  of  hatred  alight  in  their  hearts,  to 
remind  them  for  ever  of  the  foul  wrong  they  had 
suffered.  .  .  . 

Cherie  had  felt  Louise's  eyes  upon  her  and  turned 
to  her  quickly.  Had  not  her  sensitive  soul  perceived 
a  passing  breath  of  pity  and  of  tenderness?  Surely 
Louise  would  turn  to  her  now  with  a  word  of  consola- 
tion and  compassion?  Perhaps  the  sight  of  her  help- 
less infant  had  touched  Louise's  heart  at  last.  .  .  . 

No,  no.  Again  she  caught  that  look  of  resentment, 
that  terrible  look  of  anger  and  shame  in  Louise's 
eyes ;  and  bending  her  head  lower  over  her  child  she 
hurried  into  the  house. 


-225- 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  house  seemed  very  empty  without  Nurse  Elliot. 
Cherie  seldom  spoke,  for  she  had  nothing  to  speak 
about  but  her  baby,  and  she  knew  that  to  such  talk 
Louise  would  neither  wish  to  listen  nor  reply. 

Other  mothers,  reflected  Cherie  bitterly,  could 
speak  all  day  about  their  children,  and  she,  also, 
would  have  loved  to  tell  of  all  the  wonderful  things 
she  discovered  in  her  baby  day  by  day.  For  in- 
stance, he  always  laughed  in  his  dreams,  which  meant 
that  the  angels  still  spoke  to  him;  and  the  soles  of  his 
tiny  feet  were  quite  pink;  and  he  had  a  dimple  in  his 
left  cheek,  and  a  quantity  of  silky  golden  hair  on  the 
nape  of  his  neck — all  things  that  Louise  had  never 
noticed,  and  Cherie  did  not  dare  to  speak  about  them. 
There  was  silence,  pitiless  silence,  round  that  woeful 
cradle. 

In  order  that  the  child  should  not  disturb  Louise, 
Cherie  had  given  up  her  own  bedroom  and  chosen  for 
the  nursery  the  spare  room  on  the  floor  below — the 
room  with  the  red  curtains — which,  strangely 
enough,  seemed  for  her  to  hold  no  memories.  One 
afternoon  as  she  sat  there  nursing  her  child,  Louise, 

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who  hardly  ever  crossed  that  threshold,  opened  the 
door  and  came  in. 

Cherie  looked  up  with  a  welcoming  smile  of  sur- 
prise and  joy.  But  Louise  turned  her  eyes  away  from 
her  and  from  the  slumbering  babe. 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  Mireille 
is  coming  home.  I  am  going  to  fetch  her  this  eve- 
ning." 

Cherie  drew  a  quick  breath  of  alarm.  "Mireille! 
.  .  .  Mireille  is  coming  here?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Surely  you  did  not  expect  the  poor  child  to  stay 
away  for  ever?"  said  Louise,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears.  "I  have  missed  her  very  much,"  she  added 
bitterly. 

"Of  course  ...  of  course,"  stammered  Cherie, 
"I  am  sorry!  .  .  .  But  what  is  ...  what  is  to  be- 
come of  me?  I  mean,  what  shall  we  do,  the  baby 
and  I?" 

"What  can  you  do?"  said  Louise  bitterly. 

Cherie  bent  over  her  child.  "I  wish  we  could 
hide"  .  .  .  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "hide  ourselves 
away  where  nobody  would  ever  see  us." 

Louise  made  no  reply.  She  sat  down,  turning 
away  from  Cherie,  and  tried  not  to  feel  pitiless. 
"Harden  not  your  hearts  .  .  .  harden  not  your 
hearts  .  .  ."  she  repeated  to  herself,  striving  to  stifle 
the  sense  of  implacable  rancour,  of  bitter  hatred  which 

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hurt  her  own  heart,  but  which  she  could  not  over- 
come. 

"Mireille  will  come  here!"  Cherie  repeated  under 
her  breath.  "She  will  see  the  child!  What  will  she 
say?  What  will  she  say?" 

Louise  raised  her  sombre  eyes  and  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  pain. 

"Alas!  She  will  say  nothing,  poor  little  Mireille! 
She  will  say  nothing."  And  the  bitter  thought  of 
Mireille's  affliction  overwhelmed  her  mother's  soul. 

No;  whatever  happened  Mireille,  once  such  a  joy- 
ous, laughter-loving  sprite,  would  say  nothing.  She 
would  see  Cherie  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  would 
say  nothing.  She  would  see  her  mother  kneeling  at 
her  feet  beseeching  for  a  word,  and  would  say  noth- 
ing. Her  father  might  return,  and  she  would  be 
silent;  or  he  might  die — and  she  would  not  open  her 
lips.  This  other  child,  this  child  of  shame  and  sor- 
row, would  grow  up  and  learn  to  speak,  would  smile 
and  laugh  and  call  Cherie  by  the  sweet-sounding  name 
by  which  Louise  would  never  be  called  again,  but 
Mireille  would  be  for  ever  silent. 

Cherie  had  risen  with  her  baby  in  her  arms.  Shy 
and  trembling  she  went  to  Louise  and  knelt  at  her 
feet. 

"Louise!  Louise!  Can  you  not  love  us  and  for- 
give us?  What  have  we  done?  What  has  this  poor 

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little  creature  done  to  you  that  you  should  hate  it  so? 
Louise,  it  is  not  for  me  that  I  implore  your  pity  and 
your  love;  I  can  live  without  them  if  I  must;  I  can  live 
despised  and  hated  because  I  know  and  understand. 
But  for  him  I  implore  you!  For  this  poor  innocent 
who  has  done  no  harm,  who  has  come  into  life  branded 
and  ill-fated,  and  does  not  know  that  he  may  not  be 
loved  as  other  children  are — one  word  of  tenderness, 
Louise,  one  word  of  blessing!" 

She  caught  at  Louise's  dress  with  her  trembling 
hand.  "Louise,  lay  your  hand  on  his  forehead  and 
say  'God  bless  you.'  Just  those  three  little  words  that 
every  one  says  to  the  poorest  and  the  most  wretched. 
Just  say  that  shortest  of  all  prayers  for  him!" 

There  was  silence. 

"Louise!"  sobbed  Cherie,  "if  you  were  to  say  that, 
I  think  it  would  help  him  and  me  to  live  through  all 
the  days  of  misery  to  come.  It  is  so  sad,  Louise,  that 
no  one,  no  one  should  ever  have  invoked  a  benediction 
upon  so  poor  and  helpless  a  child." 

Louise's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  looked  down 
at  the  tiny  face  and  the  strange  light  eyes  blinked  up 
at  her.  They  were  cruel  eyes.  They  were  the  eyes 
she  had  seen  glaring  at  her  across  the  room,  mocking 
and  taunting  her,  at  that  supreme  instant  when  her 
prayers  and  little  Mireille's  had  at  last  succeeded  in 
touching  their  oppressor's  heart.  Those  eyes,  those 

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light  grey  eyes  in  the  ruthless  face  had  lit  upon  her, 
hard  as  flint,  cruel  as  a  blade  of  steel:  "The  seal  of 
Germany  must  be  set  upon  the  enemy's  country— 

Those  eyes  had  condemned  her  to  her  doom. 

"I  cannot,  I  cannot,"  she  said,  and  turned  away. 


-230- 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DUSK  was  falling  and  a  thin  grey  mist  crept  up  from 
the  two  rivers  as  Louise,  with  a  black  scarf  over  her 
head,  hurried  out  of  the  house  to  fetch  Mireille.  She 
was  about  to  turn  down  the  narrow  rue  de  la  Pompe 
which  led  straight  to  the  house  of  Madame  Dore  with- 
out passing  the  Place  de  1'Eglise,  where  at  this  hour 
all  the  German  soldiers  were  assembled,  when  she 
noticed  the  hunched-up  figure  of  a  Flemish  peasant 
coming  slowly  along  the  small  alley.  He  seemed  to 
be  mumbling  to  himself,  and  looked  such  a  strange 
figure  with  his  slouch  hat  and  limping  gait  that  in 
order  to  avoid  him  she  turned  back  and  went  through 
the  Square  where  the  soldiers  lounged  and  smoked. 
They  paid  no  heed  to  her  and  she  hurried  on. 

In  her  heart  a  wild  new  hope  had  sprung.  She 
was  going  to  bring  Mireille  home.  For  the  first  time 
since  that  terrible  morning  of  their  flight,  Mireille 
would  find  herself  once  more  in  the  surroundings  that 
had  witnessed  her  martyrdom. 

What  if  the  shock  of  entering  that  house  again,  of 
being  face  to  face  with  all  that  must  remind  her  of  the 
struggle  in  which  her  agonized  child-spirit  had  been 
wrecked,  what  if  that  shock — Louise  scarcely  dared  to 

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formulate  the  wild  hope  even  in  her  own  mind — were 
to  heal  her?  Such  things  had  happened.  Louise 
had  heard  and  read  of  them ;  of  people  who  were  mad 
and  had  suddenly  been  restored  to  reason,  of  people 
who  were  dumb  and  had  recovered  their  speech 
through  some  sudden  powerful  emotion. 

With  beating  heart  Louise  went  faster  through  the 
silent  streets. 

The  man  she  had  seen  in  the  rue  de  la  Pompe  had 
limped  on ;  then  turning  to  the  right  he  had  found  him- 
self in  front  of  Dr.  Brandes's  house. 

He  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  windows.  They 
were  open,  wide  open  to  the  cool  evening  air,  and  at 
the  sight,  joy  rushed  into  his  heart.  The  house  was 
certainly  inhabited.  By  whom?  By  whom?  .  .  . 
Had  they  reached  Bomal  after  all?  He  had  heard 
from  Claude  that  they  had  left  England  to  return  to 
their  home.  Had  they  arrived  safely?  Were  they 
here? 

The  hope  of  seeing  them  again  had  inspired  him  to 
attempt  and  achieve  his  daring  flight  from  the  In- 
firmary at  Liege,  and  his  temerarious  almost  incred- 
ible journey  across  miles  of  closely-guarded  country. 
The  vision  of  Cherie  had  been  before  him  when  at 
dead  of  night,  with  bleeding  hands,  he  had  worked 
for  hours  to  loosen  the  meshes  of  wire  nets  and  en- 
tanglements that  surrounded  the  hospital  grounds, 
where — half  patient,  half  prisoner — he  had  been  held 

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under  strict  surveillance  for  nearly  a  month.  It  was 
Cherie's  white  hand  that  had  beckoned  to  him  and  up- 
held him  through  the  long  hungry  days  and  the  dreary 
nights,  when  he  was  hiding  in  woods,  crouching  in 
ditches,  plunging  into  rivers,  scrambling  over  walls 
and  rocks  until  he  had  reached  the  valley  of  the 
Aisne — passing  indeed,  quite  near  to  Roche-a-Frene 
where,  he  remembered,  she  had  gone  for  an  excursion 
on  her  last  birthday.  ...  It  was  the  thought  of 
Cherie  that  had  inspired  and  guided  him  through  un- 
told risks  and  dangers.  And  now,  perhaps,  she  was 
here,  here  in  this  house  before  him,  within  reach  of 
his  voice,  within  sight  of  his  eyes,  just  beyond  those 
joyous  open  windows.  .  .  . 

He  remembered  how  on  her  birthday-night  less  than 
a  year  ago  he  had  clattered  up  on  horseback  through 
the  quiet  streets  and  had  seen  these  windows  wide 
open  as  they  were  now. — Ah,  what  destruction  had 
swept  over  the  world  since  then! 

He  remembered  the  sound  of  those  laughing,  girlish 
voices: 


Sur  le  pont 
D'Avignon 
On  y  danse 
On  y  danse  .  .  . 


He  glanced  quickly  round,  then  he  raised  hig  head 
and  softly  whistled  the  well-known  tune. 

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Cherie  had  remained  alone.  She  had  heard  Louise 
leave  the  house,  closing  the  outer  door,  and  the  sound 
of  her  quick  footsteps  had  reached  her  for  a  while 
from  the  street.  Then  silence  had  fallen. 

Louise  was  going  to  fetch  Mireille.  Soon  they 
would  come  back  together,  and  Cherie  must  decide 
what  she  would  do.  How  should  she  face  Mireille? 
No;  she  must  hide,  hide  with  her  child,  so  that  Mireille 
should  not  see  him.  For  what  would  Mireille  say 
when  she  saw  the  child?  True,  as  Louise  said,  she 
would  say  nothing — nothing  that  ears  could  hear. 
But  what  would  her  soul  say?  How  could  any  one 
know  what  Mireille  saw  and  what  she  did  not  see? 
Who  could  tell  but  what  she  might  not  see  and  re- 
member and  hate,  even  as  Louise  hated?  And  that 
silent  hatred  would  be  still  more  terrible  to  bear. 
Yes;  Mireille  would  surely  know  when  she  saw  those 
very  light  eyes  that  opened  so  widely  in  the  tiny  face; 
she  would  remember  the  man  who  had  tortured  her, 
who  had  bound  her  to  the  iron  banisters  with  her  face 
turned  to  the  bedroom  door — this  very  door,  close  by, 
draped  with  the  red  curtains — Yes.  The  memory  and 
the  horror  of  it  all  would  come  back  to  her  wandering 
spirit  every  time  she  saw  those  strange  light  eyes,  now 
half -closed  as  the  small  head  nestled  sleepily  at  its 
mother's  breast. 

Cherie  bent  over  her  child  and  kissed  the  fair  hair 
and  the  drowsy  eyes  and  the  sweet  half-open  mouth. 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


What  if  every  one  hated  him?  She  loved  him.  She 
loved  him  with  the  love  of  all  mothers  and  with  the 
greater  love  of  her  sorrow  and  despair  and  shame. 

"Child  of  mine,"  she  whispered,  "why  did  they  not 
let  us  both  drift  away  into  eternity  on  that  May  morn- 
ing when  you  had  not  yet  crossed  the  threshold  of 
life,  and  I  was  so  near  to  the  open  doors  of  death? 
We  could  have  floated  peacefully  away  together,  you 
and  I,  out  of  all  this  trouble  and  sorrow.  How 
simple  and  restful  it  would  have  been." 

But  her  baby  slept  and  it  was  dusk  and  bed-time; 
so  she  rose  and  carried  him  to  his  cradle  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  pushing  the  red  curtains  aside  with  her 
elbow  as  she  entered. 

While  she  did  so  she  found  herself  vaguely  think- 
ing of  her  birthday-night,  of  the  dance  with  Jean- 
nette,  Cri-cri,  Cecile.  Like  a  bright  disconnected 
thread  that  memory  seemed  to  run  through  her  dark 
thoughts.  What  had  brought  it  into  her  mind?  Why 
was  she  suddenly  living  over  again  that  brief  happy 
hour  before  the  storm  broke  over  her  and  wrecked 
her  life? 

The  gay  senseless  words  of  the  old  dance  kept  ring- 
ing in  her  mind. 

Sur  le  pont 

D'Avignon 

On  y  danse 

Tout  en  rond.  .  .  . 

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A  thrill  passed  through  her  as  she  realized  that 
some  passer-by  was  whistling  it  in  the  street.  Tears 
gathered  in  her  eyes  at  the  memories  which  that 
puerile  tune  evoked. 

Stir  le  pont 
D'Avignon 
On  y  danse 
On  y  danse, 
Sur  le  pont 
D'Avignon 
On  y  danse 
Tout  en  rond. 

Soft  and  clear  the  whistling  still  persisted. 
Cherie  placed  the  baby  in  its  cradle,  stooped  over  him 
and  kissed  him.  Then  she  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  on  tiptoe  to  look  out — for  the  window  was  high 
and  round,  like  a  ship's  porthole. 

The  whistling  stopped.  Somebody  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall  stepped  forward. 

And  Cherie's  heart  stood  still. 


-236- 


CHAPTER  XXV 

SHE  staggered  back  from  the  window  and  looked 
wildly  round  her.  It  was  Florian.  It  was  Florian! 
What  should  she  do?  The  child — where  could  she 
hide  the  child? 

The  low  whistle  outside  was  repeated,  there  was  a 
note  of  haste,  of  urgency  in  it.  She  must  let  him  in. 
How  had  he  got  here?  Surely  he  was  in  danger, 
there  in  the  open  street.  .  .  . 

Cherie  looked  at  herself,  looked  down  at  her  loose 
white  gown  still  unfastened  at  neck  and  breast — the 
child's  warm  white  resting-place.  Louise's  black 
shawl  lay  across  a  chair.  She  took  it  and  flung  it 
hastily  round  her  shoulders;  holding  it  tightly  about 
her  as  she  ran  down  the  stairs  and  opened  the  door. 

Florian  stepped  quickly  into  the  passage,  closing 
the  door  behind  him.  He  looked  strange  in  his  oil- 
skin coat  and  slouch  hat.  The  glimpse  Cherie  caught 
of  his  face  as  he  entered  showed  it  hard  and  thin  and 
dark.  Now  in  the  shadowy  passage  she  could  not  dis- 
tinguish his  features. 

He  caught  her  hand  and  pressed  it  tightly  in  his 
own.  "Cherie!.  .  .  Cherie!"  His  voice  was  hoarse 

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with  emotion.  "Who  is  here  with  you?"  he  whisp- 
ered. 

"Nobody,"  she  replied. 

"What?     Are  you  alone  in  the  house?" 

"Yes,"  faltered  Cherie,  withdrawing  her  hand  from 
his.  "I  mean  .  .  ."  and  she  stopped. 

"Surely,"  he  whispered  anxiously,  "you  are  not 
living  here  alone?  Where  are  the  others?  Where  is 
Louise?" 

"She  is  here — she  has  gone  out.  She  will  soon 
come  back." 

Florian  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Let  us  go  up- 
stairs," he  said;  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take 
hers  again.  "What  a  cold  little  hand!  And  how  you 
tremble!"  He  bent  down  and  looked  closely  into  her 
face.  "Did  I  frighten  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Cherie. 

"You  look  like  a  ghost."  Suddenly  a  different 
note  came  into  his  voice,  a  note  of  anxiety  and  alarm. 
"What  is  the  matter,  have  you  been  ill?" 

"Yes,"  breathed  Cherie. 

He  asked  nothing  more  but  put  his  arm  round  her, 
helping  and  hurrying  her  up  the  two  flights  of  stone 
stairs.  He  threw  open  the  sitting-room  door  and 
looked  round  the  familiar  place.  "The  Saints  be 
praised,"  he  murmured,  and  drew  her  into  the  room. 

He  flung  down  his  torn  felt  hat  and  threw  off  the 
long  oil-skin  coat.  Under  it  he  was  dressed  in  a  dark 

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linen  suit,  such  as  she  had  seen  some  of  the  wounded 
Germans  wear.  He  drew  her  to  the  window  seat;  the 
soft  May  twilight  fell  on  her  pale  face  and  glittering 
hair. 

"Tell  me,  Cherie,  tell  me  all  the  news ;  quickly.  I 
cannot  stay  long,"  he  added,  "it  would  be  dangerous 
for  you  and  for  me.  I  have  escaped  from  the  Infirm- 
ary at  Liege;  they  will  be  hunting  all  over  the  place 
for  me — and  for  the  ploughman's  clothes,"  he  added 
with  a  smile  that  for  a  moment  made  him  look  like 
the  Florian  of  old. 

"The  Infirmary?     Have  you  been  wounded?" 

"No.  I  have  been  blown  up.  The  Germans 
found  me;  they  think  me  a  Boche,  and  meschugge — 
that  is  Berlinese  for  crazy.  They  have  kept  me  with 
ice-bags  on  my  head  for  three  weeks,"  he  laughed 
again.  "Perhaps  I  was  really  off  my  head  at  first — 
but  tell  me,  tell  me  about  you.  How  are  you? 
How  is  Louise?" 

"She  is  well." 

"Is  the  little  girl  here  too?" 

"Mireille?"  There  was  a  pause.  "Yes,  Mireille 
is  here." 

Something  in  her  voice  startled  him.  "What  is 
wrong?  Has  anything  happened?" 

She  was  silent.  His  steel-blue  eyes  tried  to  pierce 
through  the  pallor  of  her  face,  through  the  black- 
fringed,  drooping  eyelids,  to  read  in  her  soul.  He 

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suddenly  felt  that  this  shrinking  figure  in  its  white 
gown  and  black  shawl  was  aloof  from  him  and  draped 
in  mystery.  "What  is  it?"  he  repeated.  "What  is 
wrong?  Where  has  Louise  gone  to?"  and  he  looked 
round  the  familiar  room  with  a  sense  of  misgiv- 
ing. 

"She  has  gone  ...  to  ...  to  fetch  Mireille 
.  .  ."  Cherie  stammered.  Then  she  suddenly  raised 
her  wild  blue  eyes  to  his.  "Mireille  is  not  as  she  used 
to  be." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Florian  suddenly  felt  sick 
and  dizzy. 

"She  does  not  know  any  one.  And  she  does  not 
•peak." 

"Not  speak?"  echoed  Florian,  and  the  sense  of 
sickness  and  dread  increased.  "What  has  happened 
to  her?" 

"She  was  frightened.  .  .  ."  Cherie's  voice  was 
toneless  and  he  had  to  bend  close  to  her  to  catch  her 
words.  "She  was  frightened  .  .  .  that  night  you  left 
.  .  .  my  birthday  night."  .  .  .  There  was  a  silence. 
She  could  say  no  more.  And  suddenly  Florian  was 
silent  too. 

His  silence  seemed  to  fall  on  her  heart  like  a  heavy 
stone.  At  last  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"Speak,"  he  said,  "speak  quickly." 

"That  night  .  .  .  they  .  .  .  they  came  here.  .  ." 

"I  know.  I  know  they  came  through  Bomal." 
-240- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


The  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  brow.  "Did  they — come 
to  this  house?" 

"Yes,"  said  Cherie. 

Again  there  was  silence — heavy  and  portentous. 

Then  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  a  little  away 
from  her. 

"They  were  in  this  house,"  he  repeated.  His  lips 
and  throat  were  arid;  he  had  the  sensation  that  his 
voice  came  from  afar  off.  "What — what  happened  to 
Mireille?  Did  they  hurt  her?" 

"No.  She  was  afraid  .  .  .  she  screamed  .  .  . 
and  they  tied  her  to  that  railing.  There" — she 
pointed  with  her  trembling  hand  to  the  wrought-iron 
banister. 

And  again  Florian's  silence  fell  upon  her  heart 
like  a  rock  and  lay  there,  heavily,  crushing  the  life 
out  of  her. 

After  a  long  while  he  moved.  He  stepped  back 
still  further  from  her,  and  his  lips  stirred  once  or  twice 
before  the  words  came. 

"And  you?     Did  they — harm  you?" 

Silence. 

He  waited  a  long  time,  then  he  repeated  the  ques- 
tion; and  again  he  felt  as  if  his  voice  came  from  miles 
away. 

Cherie  suddenly  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands. 
He  was  answered.  He  sprang  forward  and  seized  her 
wrists,  dragging  them  away  from  her  face.  "It  is  not 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


true,"  he  cried ;  "swear  that  it  is  not  true!"  And  even 
as  he  spoke  he  felt  and  hated  the  soft  limp  wrists,  the 
feminine  weakness,  all  the  delicate  yielding  frailty  of 
her.  He  would  have  liked  to  feel  her  of  steel  and  ad- 
amant, that  he  might  break  and  shatter  her,  that  he 
might  crush  and  destroy. 

Now  she  was  at  his  feet,  sobbing  and  crying;  and 
he  had  clenched  his  fists  so  tightly  in  order  not  to 
strike  her  that  his  nails  dug  deep  into  his  palms.  He 
looked  down  at  her  shimmering  hair,  at  the  white  nape 
of  her  neck,  at  her  fragile,  heaving  shoulders.  The 
enemy  had  had  her.  The  enemy  had  had  her  and 
held  her.  She  whom  he  had  deemed  too  sacred  for  his 
touch,  she  whom  he  had  never  dared  to  kiss  on  cheek 
or  hair  or  lips  had  quenched  the  brutish  desire  of  the 
invader!  .  .  .  The  foul,  blood-drunken  soldiers  had 
had  their  will  of  her — and  there  she  lay  sullied, 
ruined,  and  defiled. 

With  a  cry  like  the  cry  of  a  wounded  animal  he 
raised  his  clenched  fists  to  heaven,  and  the  blood  from 
his  lacerated  palms  ran  down  his  wrists,  and  the  tears, 
the  hot  searing  tears  that  corrode  a  man's  soul,  rolled 
down  his  gaunt,  agonized  face. 

There  she  lay,  the  broken,  helpless  creature,  there 
she  lay — the  symbol  of  his  country,  his  wrecked  and 
ruined  country! 

Lost,  lost  both  of  them — broken,  outraged  and  de- 
filed. 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


Not  all  his  blood,  not  all  his  prayers,  could  ever 
undo  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  to  them,  could  ever 
raise  them  in  their  pristine  glory  and  purity — the  sul- 
lied soul  of  the  woman,  the  outraged  heart  of  his  land. 

In  the  grey  gloaming  that  fell  around  them,  veiling 
with  its  shadows  the  shame  of  her  face,  she  told  him 
what  was  still  left  to  tell. 

He  said  never  a  word.  He  sat  with  bowed  head, 
his  eyes  hidden  in  his  hands.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
dead  in  a  dead  world.  All  the  flames  of  his  anger  and 
despair  were  spent.  His  soul  was  turned  to  ashes. 
Nothing  was  left.  Nothing  was  left  to  live  for,  to 
fight  for,  to  pray  for. 

For  a  long  time  he  seemed  to  hear  none  of  the 
stricken  woman's  words,  as  she  knelt  sobbing  at  his 
feet.  Then  one  word,  constantly  recurring,  beat  on 
his  brain  like  a  hammer  on  red-hot  iron. 

"The  child  .  .  .  the  child" — every  other  word  that 
fell  from  her  lips  seemed  to  be  "the  child." 

"If  only  I  could  die,"  she  was  crying,  "I  should  love 
to  die  were  it  not  for  the  child.  It  is  such  a  forlorn 
and  desolate  little  child.  Nobody  ever  looks  at  it, 
nobody  ever  smiles  at  it  or  wishes  it  well.  .  .  .  Not 
even  Louise,  who  is  so  kind.  .  .  .  No,  she  is  cruel, 
she  is  like  a  fury  when  she  looks  at  the  child.  Oh, 
God!  what  will  our  life  be  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
scorn  and  hatred?  Not  that  I  care  about  myself;  but 
what  will  become  of  the  little  child?  Perhaps  I 

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should  have  done  as  Louise  did.  ...  I  should  have 
torn  it  from  me  before  it  came  to  life." 

A  deep  shudder  ran  through  Florian. 

"But  I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  in  my  soul — the  very 
voice  of  God,  calling  aloud  to  me:  'Thou  shall  not 

km: " 

Florian  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  down  at  the 
bowed  figure.  This  was  Cherie,  the  laughing,  dim- 
pling, blushing  Cherie — his  betrothed!  .  .  .  He 
bent  over  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
but  she  paid  no  heed. 

"Ah,  if  only  we  could  slip  out  of  life  together,  the 
child  and  I!  But  how?  How?  When  he  looks  up 
at  me  and  touches  my  face  with  his  tiny  hands,  how 
can  I  hurt  him?"  Her  tear-flooded  eyes  looked  up  at 
Florian  without  seeing  him.  "Should  I  strangle  the 
little  tender  throat  with  my  hands?  Or  stifle  the  soft 
breath  of  his  mouth?  .  .  .  Why  should  he  not  live 
like  other  children,  and  laugh  and  play  and  be  happy 
like  every  other  child?  What  has  he  done,  poor  inno- 
cent, that  he  should  be  accursed,  among  children,  an 
outcast,  hated  and  despised?" 

"Cherie!"  he  said,  but  she  did  not  hear  or  heed  him. 
Nor  did  she  heed  the  braggart  peal  of  trumpet  and 
clarionet  passing  under  the  windows  with  the  din  of 
the  "Wacht  am  Rhein."  She  heard  nothing,  she  cared 
for  nothing  but  her  own  and  the  enemy's  child. 

The  soldier's  blood  rose  within  him. 
-244- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


"And  is  this  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  when  I  come 
to  you  out  of  the  very  jaws  of  death?  Is  this  all  you 
can  think  of  when  our  land  is  wrung  and  wracked  by 
the  enemy,  torn  to  pieces  by  the  foul  fiends  that  have 
violated  her  and  you?  A  thousand  curses  on  them 
and  on " 

"No — no — no!"  she  screamed,  springing  to  her  feet 
and  covering  his  mouth  with  her  hands.  "No — no — 
not  on  him,  not  on  him!" 

"In  the  name  of  Belgium,"  roared  the  maddened 
Florian,  "in  the  name  of  our  outraged  women,  our 
perishing  children,  our  murdered  men,  I  curse  the 
child  you  have  borne!  In  the  name  of  our  broken 
hearts,  in  the  name  of  our  burned  and  ravaged  home- 
steads— Louvain,  Lierre,  Berlaer,  Mortsel,  Waehlen, 

Weerde,  Hofstade,  Herselt,  Diest "  The  names 

fell  from  his  lips,  fanning  his  heart  to  fury;  but  the 
woman  closed  her  ears  with  her  hands  so  as  not  to 
hear  the  tragic  enumeration  of  those  sacred  and  famil- 
iar names — Belgium's  rosary  of  martyrdom  and  fire. 

She  held  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  wept:  "May 
God  not  hear  you!  .  .  .  May  God  not  hear  you!" 

But  he  raised  his  voice  and  continued  the  appalling 
litany:  "Malines,  Fleron,  Wavre,  Notre  Dame,  Ros- 

beck,  Muysen "  Suddenly  he  stopped.  A 

sound  had  struck  his  ear — what  was  it? 

It  was  a  cry — the  short,  shrill  cry  of  an  infant. 

The  man  stood  still  as  if  turned  to  stone ;  his  blood- 
-245- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


shot  eyes,  starting  from  their  sockets,  stared  at  the 
red-draped  door  from  which  the  sound  had  come. 

Cherie  was  at  his  feet,  sobbing  and  wailing,  her 
arms  flung  round  his  knees.  "Have  pity,  have  pity!" 
she  sobbed,  shaking  with  terror  of  him,  blind  with  the 
fear  of  his  violence.  "Do  no  harm,  do  no  harm! 
Kill  me,  trample  upon  me,  but  do  no  harm  to  the 
child." 

And  still  Florian  stood  motionless,  as  if  turned  to 
stone.  He  heard  none  of  the  wild  words  that  fell 
from  the  terrified  woman's  lips;  he  heard  nothing 
but  that  querulous  cry,  the  cry  of  the  newly-born. 
The  world  seemed  to  ring  with  it.  Above  the  wailing 
voice  of  the  woman,  above  the  din  of  soldiery,  the 
clash  of  arms,  the  roar  of  warfare,  rose  that  shrill 
cry  of  life,  the  cry  of  humanity.  And  that  cry 
pierced  his  heart  like  a  sword.  In  it  was  all  the 
helplessness  and  misery  of  the  world.  It  seemed  to 
tell  him  of  the  uselessness  and  hopelessness  and  sad- 
ness of  all  things. 

Anger,  grief  and  despair,  the  passion  of  ven- 
geance and  the  desire  to  kill,  all  dropped  out  of  his 
soul  and  left  it  silent  and  empty.  The  terrified 
woman  before  him  saw  those  fierce  eyes  soften,  saw 
the  stern  lips  tremble. 

He  bent  forward  and  raised  her  to  her  feet.  "Poor 
Cherie!"  he  said.  "Poor  little  Cherie!"  He  took 

-246- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


her  pale,  disfigured  face  between  his  two  hands  and 
looked  into  her  eyes.  "Say  good-bye  to  me.  Say 
good-bye.  And  may  the  Saints  protect  you." 

"Where  are  you  going?  What  will  you  do?"  she 
sobbed  as  she  saw  him  turning  away  from  her,  making 
ready  to  go  out  into  the  darkness — out  of  her  life  for 
ever. 

"There  is  much  for  me  to  do,"  he  said  and  his  eyes 
wandered  to  the  window  whence  the  sound  of  the  Ger- 
man bugles  could  still  be  heard. 

And  as  she  looked  at  him  she  saw  that  Florian,  the 
comrade  and  lover  of  her  youth,  had  vanished — only 
the  soldier  stood  before  her,  the  soldier  aloof  from 
her,  detached  from  her,  the  soldier  alone  with  his  stern 
great  task  to  do. 

But  in  her  the  woman,  the  eternal,  helpless  woman, 
was  born  again,  and  she  clung  to  him  and  wept,  for 
passion  and  love  returned  to  her  soul  and  over- 
whelmed her. 

"You  will  leave  me!  You  will  leave  me!  Flor- 
ian, oh,  my  love!  What  will  become  of  me?  What 
shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

As  if  in  answer,  the  feeble  cry  of  the  infant  rose 
again. 

The  man  said  not  a  word.  He  raised  his  hand  and 
pointed  silently  to  the  red-draped  door.  Then  he 
turned  from  her  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

-247- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


Cherie  stood  still,  gazing  at  the  empty    doorway 
through  which  he  had  passed. 

Then  as  the  child  still  wept,  she  went  to  him. 
Humbly  she  went,  and  took  her  woman's  place  be- 
side the  cradle. 


-248- 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  bugle  bidding  the  inhabitants  of  Bomal  to  enter 
their  homes  and  lock  their  doors  blew  shrilly  as 
Louise  hurried  through  the  darkening,  deserted 
streets,  holding  Mireille's  chilly  hand  in  hers.  She 
spoke  in  soft,  hurried  tones,  as  if  the  child  could  hear 
her,  as  if  she  could  understand.  "You  shall  see, 
Mireille,  you  shall  see  when  you  enter  your  home — 
you  will  recognize  it  and  remember.  When  I  open 
the  door  and  you  step  suddenly  into  the  familiar 
place,  I  shall  see  the  light  break  in  your  eyes  like  a 
sudden  dawn.  You  will  turn  to  me  and  you  will  smile 
— or  weep!  I  do  not  know  which  will  give  me  the 
greater  joy — your  tears  or  your  smile.  Then  you 
will  open  your  sweet  lips — and  speak.  .  .  ." 

"What  will  your  first  words  be,  Mireille?  Will 
you  say,  'Mother'?  Will  you  greet  me  as  one  who  re- 
turns from  a  long  journey,  as  one  who  wakens  from 
a  long  dream?  .  .  .  Or,  even  though  your  voice  be 
given  back  to  you,  will  you  be  silent  awhile,  able 
yet  not  daring  to  speak?  ...  Or  will  the  first  sound 
from  your  lips  be  a  cry  of  terror  when  you  remember 
what  you  saw  that  night?  .  .  .  Mireille,  Mireille, 
whatever  it  be,  I  know  that  this  evening  I  shall  hear 
your  voice.  It  is  as  if  God  had  told  me  so." 

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THE      OUTRAGE 


They  went  more  quickly  through  the  sombre 
streets. 

Far  away  over  the  hills  of  the  Ardennes  the  great 
May  moon  arose.  As  soon  as  Louise  caught  sight  of 
the  house  she  saw  that  the  gate  to  the  courtyard  was 
open.  Could  any  one  have  entered  during  her  ab- 
sence? She  glanced  up  at  the  windows.  They  were 
open,  but  dark.  The  sense  of  panic  that  was  never 
far  from  her  heart  since  their  return  to  Belgium 
clutched  at  her  like  a  cold  hand.  Could  anything 
have  happened?  Why  had  Cherie  not  lit  the  lights? 
Who  had  left  the  gate  unclosed? 

Then  the  thought  of  Mireille,  the  hope,  the  wild 
prescience  of  her  recovery  which  had  suddenly  grown 
into  a  delirious  certainty  flamed  up  in  her  heart  again, 
and  all  else  was  forgotten.  She  and  Mireille  were 
alone  in  the  world. 

She  and  Mireille  were  alone. 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  small  vacant  face 
as  she  led  her  past  the  gate — that  gate  through  which 
the  child's  dancing  feet  had  twinkled  throughout  the 
care-free  seasons  of  her  infancy. 

But  not  a  quiver  rippled  over  the  childish  counten- 
ance, not  a  gleam  of  light  flickered  in  the  dreamy  eyes, 
and  with  a  low  sob  Louise  grasped  the  small  passive 
hand  more  tightly  and  drew  her  across  the  courtyard 
to  the  hall-door. 

That  door  also  was  ajar,  as  if  some  one  had  hur- 
-250- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


riedly  left  it  so,  regardless  of  the  invader's  orders 
that  at  sunset  all  doors  should  be  locked.  One  mo- 
ment Louise  thought  of  calling  to  Cherie  to  make  sure 
that  she  was  in  the  house;  but  again  the  need  to  be 
alone,  face  to  face  with  Mireille's  awakening  soul, 
restrained  her.  She  drew  Mireille  into  the  hall  and 
turned  on  the  light. 

"Mireille  .  .  .  Mireille  .  .  ."  she  whispered 
breathlessly.  "Look,  darling  .  .  .  don't  you  re- 
member? Don't  you  remember?" 

The  girl's  pale  eyes  roved  from  the  tapestried 
archway  to  the  panelled  doors,  from  the  ornamental 
panoply  to  the  Van  de  Welde  winter  landscapes  hang- 
ing on  the  wall  before  her.  No  ray  of  recognition 
lit  the  unmoved  face,  which  was  fair  and  still  as  a 
closed  flower.  With  beating  heart  Louise  placed  her 
arm  around  the  girl's  narrow  shoulders  and  guided 
her  light,  uncertain  footsteps  up  the  stairs.  The 
door  to  the  sitting-room  was  open;  Louise  stretched 
out  her  hand,  and  the  brilliancy  of  the  electric  light  lit 
up  the  room. 

With  a  gasp  Louise  felt  Mireille  falter  on  the  thres- 
hold .  .  .  she  stood  breathless  and  watched  her. 
Surely,  surely  she  must  recognize  this  scene:  there  to 
the  right,  the  large  Flemish  fireplace;  there  beyond  it 
the  old-fashioned  oak  settee;  and  there  the  shallow 
flight  of  stairs,  with  the  wrought-iron  banisters  run- 
ning right  down  into  the  room,  facing  the  door  with 

-251- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


the  red-tapestried  curtains.  .  .  .  Surely,  with  this 
scene  of  her  martyrdom  brought  suddenly  before  her, 
the  veil  of  unconsciousness  would  be  rent  from  her 
soul.  Louise  felt  it.  Louise  knew  it.  Already  she 
could  almost  hear  the  cry  with  which  her  child  would 
turn  to  her  and  fall  into  her  arms.  .  .  . 

Nothing.     Nothing  happened. 

For  an  instant  a  vague  expression,  a  pale  light  as  of 
dread,  had  flickered  over  the  tranquil  countenance. 
She  had  faltered,  and  stood  still,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  red  drapery  of  the  closed  door.  Then  the  pale 
flicker  of  emotion  had  faded  from  her  face  as  if  blown 
out  by  a  gust  of  wind. 

Nothing  more.  With  limp,  pendant  hands  and  va- 
cant eyes  she  stood  before  Louise  in  her  usual  droop- 
ing posture — pale,  ethereal  and  unreal,  like  a  little 
weary  seraph  walking  in  its  dreams. 

The  flaming  torch  of  hope  in  the  mother's  heart  was 
dashed  to  the  ground. 

And  all  was  dark. 


-252- 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CHERIE,  kneeling  beside  her  child's  cradle,  had  heard 
them  enter  the  adjoining  room.  She  rose  slowly. 
She  must  go  and  meet  them;  she  must  greet  Mireille 
and  tell  Louise  that  Florian  had  come ;  had  come  .  .  . 
and  gone! 

The  profound  silence  in  the  adjoining  room  struck 
her.  She  wondered,  as  she  hesitated  at  the  door,  why 
Louise  did  not  speak.  For  did  she  not  always  talk  to 
Mireille  in  that  low,  tender  voice  of  hers,  as  if  the 
child  could  understand?  Now  there  was  not  a  sound. 
It  was  if  the  room  were  empty. 

Suddenly  she  understood.  Louise  was  waiting, 
hoping  that  the  miracle  might  be  accomplished — that 
Mireille  might  speak.  Then  Cherie  also  stood  mo- 
tionless with  clasped  hands,  and  waited,  waited  for  a 
sound,  a  word,  a  cry. 

But  the  silence  remained  unbroken. 

At  last  she  heard  the  sound  of  Louise's  weeping; 
and,  soon  after,  their  soft,  retreating  footsteps  on  the 
carpeted  stairs.  Then  utter  silence. 

And  Cherie  still  stood  at  the  closed  door,  leaning 
her  forehead  against  its  panels. 

They  had  gone.  Louise  was  taking  Mireille  to 
-253- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


bed.  She  had  not  called  Cherie.  She  had  not  said 
good-night,  nor  asked  her  to  come  and  see  Mireille. 
No.  Cherie  was  not  needed.  Louise,  even  in  her 
great  sorrow,  did  not  think  of  coming  to  Cherie.  She 
had  gone  with  Mireille  to  her  room,  and  she  would 
stay  there  and  weep  all  alone,  and  sleep  at  last,  never 
knowing  that  Florian  had  been,  never  knowing  that  he 
had  gone  away  for  ever,  never  knowing  that  Cherie's 
heart  was  broken!  .  .  .  With  a  rush  of  passionate 
grief  Cherie  drew  back  from  the  door  and  fell  on  her 
knees  beside  the  cradle. 

And  there  the  great  May  moon,  rising  like  a  golden 
disc  over  the  hills  of  the  Ardennes,  found  her  and 
shone  down  through  the  round  window,  upon  her  and 
her  sleeping  babe. 

Louise,  lying  awake  in  the  dark,  heard  the  church 
clock  strike  eleven.  She  lay  quite  still  in  the  silent 
room,  listening  to  Mireille's  soft  breathing.  Then  she 
thought  of  Claude,  and  prayed  for  his  safety;  but  not 
for  his  return. 

At  last,  exhausted,  she  slept. 

But  Mireille,  though  her  soft  breathing  never 
varied,  was  not  asleep.  She  lay  motionless  in  the 
dark,  with  her  eyes  wide  open.  She  was  listening  to 
something  that  had  awakened  within  her — Mem- 
ory! .  .  . 

The  church  clock  struck  half-past  eleven.  Louise 
-254- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


still  slept,  with  the  occasional  catch  in  her  breath  of 
those  who  have  cried  themselves  to  sleep. 

Mireille  sat  up.  The  room  was  quite  dark,  the 
shutters  closed  and  the  curtains  drawn.  But  Mireille 
slipped  from  her  bed,  a  slim,  white-robed  spectre,  and 
her  bare  feet  crossed  the  room  without  a  sound.  She 
found  the  door  and  opened  it  noiselessly;  she  crossed 
the  landing,  and  her  small  feet  trod  the  carpeted  stair- 
case as  lightly  and  silently  as  the  falling  petals  of  a 
flower. 

Where  was  she  going  to?  What  drew  her  through 
the  dark  and  silent  house? 

Terror — and  the  memory  of  a  red-draped  door. 
Nothing  else  did  her  haunted  eyes  perceive,  nothing 
else  did  her  stricken  soul  realize,  but  that  red  curtain 
draped  over  a  door.  She  remembered  it  with  a  vague, 
horrible  sense  of  fear.  She  must  see  it  again.  .  .  . 
Had  she  not  once  stood  before  that  draped  door  for 
hours  and  years  and  eternities?  .  .  .  Yes.  She 
must  see  it  again.  And  if  that  door  were  to  open — 
she  must  die!  .  .  . 

She  went  on,  drawn  by  her  terror  as  by  an  unseen 
force,  until  she  reached  the  last  shallow  flight  of  stairs 
—three  steps  skirted  by  a  wrought-iron  banister — 
and  there  she  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  fettered  to  the 
spot.  For  though  the  room  was  plunged  in  darkness 
she  knew  that  there,  opposite  her,  was  the  door  with 
the  red  curtain  .  .  . 

-255- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


And  thus  she  stood,  in  the  selfsame  attitude  of  her 
past  martyrdom,  feeling  that  she  was  pinioned  there, 
feeling  that  she  must  stand  for  ever  with  her  eyes 
fixed  in  the  darkness  on  that  part  of  the  room  where 
she  knew  was  the  door — the  door  with  the  red  cur- 
tain. 


Cherie  heard  the  clock  strike  eleven;  then  the 
quarter;  then  the  half -hour.  And  still  she  lay  on  the 
floor  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  arms. 

For  her  all  was  at  an  end.  Her  resolve  was  taken. 
Her  mind  was  clear.  Now  she  had  seen  Florian  there 
was  nothing  left  to  wait  for.  What  good  would  she  or 
the  child  ever  do  in  the  world?  Nobody  wanted  them. 
Nobody  ever  wanted  to  see  them  or  speak  to  them. 
They  were  outcasts.  Not  even  Louise  could  look 
without  loathing  at  the  hapless  little  child.  Not  even 
Louise  could  invoke  a  benediction  upon  him.  He  was 
ill-omened,  hated  and  accursed. 

Cherie  rose  to  her  feet  and  went  to  the  window — the 
old-fashioned  circular  window  like  a  ship's  porthole— 
and  opened  it  wide. 

The  level  rays  of  the  moon  poured  in,  flooding  the 
room  with  light. 

"Good-night,  moon,"  said  Cherie.  "Good-night, 
sky.  Good-night,  world."  Then  she  turned  away 
and  went  to  the  cradle.  She  bent  over  it,  and  lifted 

-256- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


her  sleeping  infant  in  her  arms.  How  warm  he  was! 
How  warm  and  soft  and  tender!  .  .  .  He  must  not 
catch  cold.  .  .  .  Instinctively  Cherie  caught  up  her 
wide  blue  silk  scarf  and  wrapped  it  round  herself 
and  the  child.  They  were  going  out  into  the  night  air, 
out  into  the  chilly  moonlight;  they  were  going  to  cross 
the  bridge  over  the  Ourthe,  and  then  go  up  the  lower 
bank  of  the  river,  up  through  the  dank  grasses,  past 
the  old  mill.  .  .  .  There,  where  the  bank  shelved 
down  so  steeply  she  would  run  into  the  water. 

She  knew  what  it  would  feel  like.  Last  year,  had 
she  not  run  into  the  rippling  waves  at  Westende  every 
morning?  She  remembered  it  well. 

Yes;  she  would  feel  the  cool  chill  embrace  of  the 
water  rising  from  her  feet  to  her  knees  .  .  .  to  her 
waist  ...  to  her  breast  ...  to  her  throat.  .  .  . 
Then  she  would  clasp  her  arms  tightly  round  her 
child,  putting  her  lips  close  to  his  so  as  not  to  hear  him 
cry,  and  her  last  breath  would  be  exhaled  on  the 
sweet  warmth  of  that  little  mouth,  the  dear  little  open 
mouth  that  seemed  always  to  be  asking  for  the  balm  of 
milk  and  kisses. 

She  raised  her  eyes  once  more  to  the  open  window. 
"Good-bye,"  she  said  again  to  the  sky,  to  the  world, 
and  to  life.  Then  she  resolutely  turned  away  from 
the  shining  circle  of  light. 

She  drew  the  long  blue  scarf  over  her  own  head  and 
shoulders,  crossing  it  over  her  arms  and  wrapping  the 

-257- 


THE      OUTRAGE 


infant  in  its  azure  folds  as  she  held  him  to  her  breast. 
Then  she  opened  the  door. 

The  red  curtain  fell  in  a  straight  line  before  her, 
and  she  pushed  it  softly  aside;  it  slid  smoothly  back  on 
its  rings. 

Clasping  her  infant  in  the  shimmering  folds  of  blue, 
she  took  a  step  forward — then  stopped  and  stood  trans- 
fixed in  the  doorway. 

Some  one  was  there!  Some  one  was  standing 
silent,  there  in  the  dark. 

Who  was  it? 

Mireille! 

Mireille  had  stood  motionless,  almost  cataleptic, 
with  her  fear-maddened  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dark  spot 
which  was  the  door.  Now — now  it  was  opening!  it 
was  opening!  A  white  light  had  streamed  suddenly 
under  the  curtain. 

Yes.  The  door  was  opening.  .  .  .  Now  Mireille 
would  die!  She  knew  it!  What  she  was  going  to 
see  would  kill  her,  as  it  had  killed  her  soul  before. 

Gasping,  with  open  mouth,  with  clenched  hands, 
she  saw  the  gap  of  light  widen  beneath  the  moving 
curtain.  .  .  .  Now  .  .  .  now.  .  .  .  The  curtain 
had  slid  back.  There  was  a  dazzling  square  of 
light  .  .  . 

And  in  that  light  stood  a  Vision. 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  moon,  swathed  in  shim- 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


mering  azure  stood  a  Mother  with  her  Child.  Behind 
her  head  glowed  a  luminous  silver  circle. 

Ah!  Well  did  Mireille  know  her!  Well  did 
Mireille  remember  her.  All  fear  was  gone,  all  dark- 
ness swept  away  in  the  rapture  of  that  dazzling  pres- 
ence. 

Mireille  stretched  out  her  clasped  hands  towards 
that  effulgent  vision.  What  were  the  words  of  greet- 
ing she  must  say?  She  knew  them  well  .  .  .  they 
were  rising  in  her  throat.  .  .  .  What  were  they? 
What  were  they? 

She  wrung  her  clasped  hands,  with  a  spasm  in  her 
throat,  but  the  words  would  not  come.  She  knew 
them.  They  seemed  to  burst  open  like  flowers  of  light 
in  her  brain,  to  peal  like  the  notes  of  an  organ  in  her 
soul,  yet  her  lips  were  locked  and  could  not  frame 
them. 

The  vision  moved,  seemed  to  waver  and  tremble. 
.  .  .  Ah!  Would  she  fade  away  and  vanish  and  be 
lost?  Would  Mireille  fall  back  again  into  eternal 
silence  and  darkness? 

Something  seemed  to  break  in  Mireille's  throat.  A 
cry — a  cry,  thrilling  and  articulate — escaped  her. 
The  sealed  fountain  of  her  voice  was  opened  and  the 
words  of  the  immortal  salutation  gushed  from  her 
lips: 

"Ave  Maria!  .  .  ." 

Did  not  the  shimmering  figure  smile  and  move  to- 
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THE      OUTRAGE 


wards  her  with  extended  hand?   .   .  .     Fainting  with 
ecstasy,  Mireille  sank  at  her  feet. 

Louise  had  started  from  her  sleep  at  the  sound  of 
a  cry.  .  .  .  Whose  voice  had  uttered  it? 

Though  the  room  was  dark,  she  felt  that  it  was 
empty;  she  knew  that  Mireille  was  not  there.  Yes, 
the  door  was  open,  showing  a  pale  glimmer  of  light. 

Swift  as  an  arrow  Louise  sped  down  the  stairs,  then 
— on  the  landing  of  the  last  flight — she  stopped,  daz- 
zled and  spell-bound  by  what  she  saw  before  her. 

There  in  the  moonlight  stood  the  eternal  vision  of 
Maternity;  and  before  it  knelt  Mireille. 

And  Mireille  was  speaking. 

"Benedicta  tu.  .  .  ." 

Clear,  frail  and  silvern  the  words  fell  from 
Mireille's  lips. 

"Benedicta  tu!" 

The  blessing  that  Louise  and  all  others  had  with- 
held, now  fell  like  a  solemn  prophecy  from  the  inno- 
cent's lips,  rang  like  a  divine  decree  in  that  pure  voice 
that  had  been  hushed  so  long. 

Mireille  was  healed!  Healed  through  Cherie  and 
her  child  of  sorrow  and  shame. 

A  wave  of  exalted  emotion  overwhelmed  Louise, 
and  she  sank  on  her  knees  beside  Mireille,  repeating 
the  hallowed  benediction. 

With  flowing  tears  Cherie,  clasping  her  baby  in  her 
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arms,  wavered  and  trembled  like  a  holy  picture  seen 
in  moonlit  waters.  .  .  . 

And  so  farewell — farewell  to  Mireille,  Cherie, 
Louise. 

They  are  still  in  their  Belgian  village  awaiting  the 
dawn  of  their  deliverance. 

Around  them  the  fury  of  War  still  rages,  and  the 
end  of  their  sorrow  is  not  yet. 

But  upon  them  has  descended  the  Peace  of  God 
which  passeth  all  understanding. 


THE   END 


-261- 


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